BOOKS  BY  MR.  KENYON 

IN    VERSE 

The  Fallen,  and  Other  Poems 

Out  of  the  Shadows 

Songs  in  All  Seasons 

In  Realms  of  Gold 

At  the  Gate  of  Dreams 

An  Oaten  Pipe 

A  Little  Book  of  Lullabies 

Poems 

IN  PROSE 

Loiterings  in  Old  Fields 


Loiterings  in  Old  Fields 

LITERARY   SKETCHES 

By 
JAMES   B.    KENYON 


NEW  YORK  :     EATON  &  MAINS 
CINCINNATI :  JENNINGS  &  PYE 


Copyright  by 

EATON  &  MAINS. 

1901. 


Cover  Design  by 
Mae  Wallace  McCastllne. 


K31 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.  TENNYSON  IN  NEW  ASPECTS 7 

II.  WILLIAM  MORRIS— POET,  SOCIALIST, 

AND  MASTER  OF  MANY  CRAFTS...     51 

III.  JOHN  KEATS 85 

IV.  GEORGE  ELIOT 115 

V.  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  AND  His 

SISTER  CHRISTINA 149 

VI.  THE     CORRESPONDENCE    OF    JAMES 

RUSSELL  LOWELL 175 

VII.  THE    LETTERS    OF    ROBERT    Louis 

STEVENSON...  .  211 


M787431 


I 

TENNYSON  IN  NEW  ASPECTS 


Loiterings  in  Old  Fields 


i 

TENNYSON   IN   NEW   ASPECTS 

Now  that  the  biography  of  Alfred  Ten- 
nyson has  been  given  by  his  son  to  the 
world,  an  accurate  portrayal  of  a  great  and 
unique  personality  is  made  possible  to  the 
general  reading  public.  Not  that  the  novel 
aspects  of  Lord  Tennyson's  character  and 
works  are  new  to  the  elect  few  who  were 
his  tried  and  intimate  friends,  but  that  the 
misconceptions  of  the  late  laureate's  life  his- 
tory will  finally  be  removed  from  the  minds 
of  those  to  whom  for  half  a  century  his 
name  has  been  synonymous  with  the  noblest 
functions  of  a  bard.  At  length  this  prince 
of  song  takes  his  place  in  that  clear  light  of 


8          LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

truth  and  high  renown  where  to  see  him 
is  to  love  him  for  what  he  was  within  him- 
self, as  well  as  for  what  he  wrought  of  profit 
and  delight  to  the  world. 

The  year  1809  is  a  memorable  one,  since 
it  records  the  nativity  of  Alfred  Tennyson, 
William  E.  Gladstone,  Charles  Darwin,  Ol- 
iver Wendell  Holmes,  Richard  Monckton 
Milnes  (Lord  Houghton),  Edgar  A.  Poe, 
Abraham  Lincoln,  Frederic  Chopin,  and 
Felix  Mendelssohn.  Few  single  years  in  a 
century  are  so  fruitful  in  greatness.  Of 
right  Tennyson's  name  takes  its  place  at 
the  head  of  this  list,  as  he  was  facile  prin- 
ceps  among  his  compeers.  In  him  the  men- 
tal restlessness,  the  earnest  gropings  toward 
the  solution  of  moral  problems,  the  almost 
despairing  grasp  upon  the  great,  isolated, 
undemonstrable  verities  of  the  spiritual  life, 
the  certain  yet  conservative  trend  toward 
democracy — all  characteristics  of  the  age 
in  which  he  lived — found  their  mysterious 
junction.  He  became,  more  than  any  other 
eminent  thinker  of  his  day,  the  representa- 
tive voice  of  his  generation.  He  was  in- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS          9 

tensely  conscious  of  his  prophetic  calling, 
being  burdened  all  his  life  with  the  sense  of 
a  divine  gift  for  the  proper  employment  of 
which  he  must  render  due  account.  He  was 
wont  to  say  that  sometimes  the  weight  of 
his  responsibility  in  this  direction  became 
well-nigh  insupportable.  But  he  never  pros- 
tituted his  large  powers  to  ignoble  ends. 
It  might  be  written  of  him,  as  he  himself 
wrote  of  Wordsworth,  that  he  "uttered 
nothing  base." 

To  preserve  unimpaired  his  poetic  talent 
and  freedom  Tennyson  was  willing  to  en- 
dure years  of  neglect  and  what  was  little 
better  than  poverty.  Some  of  the  shifts  to 
which  he  was  put  before  his  general  recog- 
nition as  a  great  poet  were  of  an  almost  sor- 
did kind;  he  rode  in  third-class  passenger 
coaches,  scarcely  better  than  cattle  cars,  and 
when  he  could  not  afford  to  ride  he  walked. 
He  borrowed  books  because  he  could  not 
afford  to  buy  them,  and  on  the  few  trips  he 
was  permitted  to  take  he  sought  the  cheaper 
lodging  houses  because  he  could  not  afford 
to  patronize  better  ones.  He  did  not  wed 


io        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

the  woman  of  his  choice  until  many  years 
after  he  had  first  met  and  loved  her;  and  in 
the  interval  of  his  poetic  silence,  when  for 
ten  years  he  gave  nothing  to  the  public 
which  had  scoffed  at  his  muse,  the  engage- 
ment between  himself  and  Miss  Sellwood 
was  terminated,  as  there  seemed  to  be  no 
prospect  that  he  would  ever  be  able  to  pro- 
vide for  a  wife.  Yet  his  high  spirit  was 
never  broken,  his  manly  independence  was 
never  compromised. 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  extremely  fortu- 
nate in  his  friendships.  From  the  begin- 
ning of  his  college  days  to  the  end  of  his 
long  life  he  numbered  among  his  friends 
some  of  the  rarest  spirits  of  the  century. 
Fine  minds  gravitated  toward  him  by  a  kind 
of  natural  law.  Samuel  Rogers,  Edward 
Fitzgerald,  James  Spedding,  W.  E.  Glad- 
stone, Frederick  D.  Maurice,  Edward  Lear, 
G.  F.  Watts,  Thomas  Woolner,  Robert 
Browning,  Thomas  Carlyle,  Benjamin  Jow- 
ett,  F.  T.  Palgrave,  William  Allingham,  J. 
M.  Kemble,  Henry  Taylor,  John  Tyndall, 
Richard  Monckton  Milnes,  G.  S.  Venables, 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        n 

Aubrey  de  Vere,  W.  M.  Thackeray,  John 
Forster,  Henry  Hallam,  A.  H.  Clough,  Mat- 
thew Arnold,  and  the  Duke  of  Argyll — 
these  were  among  those  whom  Tennyson 
knew  and  loved  best.  The  supreme  sorrow 
of  his  life  was  in  the  death  of  his  most 
warmly  cherished  friend,  Arthur  Hallam. 
Tennyson's  affection  for  this  young  man 
was  singularly  pure  and  deep.  Hallam  was 
engaged  to  Tennyson's  sister,  and  was  pos- 
sessed of  a  subtle  and  commanding  intellect. 
Among  his  college  friends  the  consensus  of 
opinion  was  that  he  —  Hallam  —  and  not 
Gladstone  was  the  coming  great  man.  When 
Arthur  Hallam's  life  was  suddenly  termi- 
nated Alfred  Tennyson  was  plunged  into 
the  profoundest  grief.  For  years  he  brood- 
ed upon  his  sorrow,  valiantly  meeting  the 
specters  of  his  own  mind  and  subduing 
them,  until  out  of  the  stress  and  anguish  of 
that  bitter  period  came  "In  Memoriam," 
the  noblest  elegiac  poem  to  be  found  in  any 
language  of  the  world. 

To  prepare  a  just  and  adequate  memoir 
of  any  eminent  person  requires  a  peculiar 


12        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

combination  of  qualities  in  the  writer  there- 
of— complete  sympathy  with  the  subject  in 
hand,  entire  familiarity  with  the  biographi- 
cal data  accessible,  an  even  and  well-bal- 
anced judgment,  and  unerring  taste  in  the 
selection  of  material  to  be  presented.  In 
Hallam  Tennyson's  memoir  of  his  illustrious 
father  these  qualities  are  combined  in  pleas- 
ing measure.  A  quiet  reserve  is  manifest, 
such  as  characterized  the  poet  himself  in 
his  attitude  toward  the  public  at  large,  but 
this  reticence  concerns  mainly  those 'more 
private  affairs  which  are  sacred  to  the  do- 
mestic life.  Yet  even  here  the  curtain  is 
lifted  now  and  again,  affording  charming 
glimpses  of  a  great  genius  off  guard  and  at 
ease  in  the  serenity  of  the  home  circle.  It 
is  not  the  purpose  of  the  present  writer  to 
review  the  two  stout  octavo  volumes  in 
which  are  gathered  by  filial  duty  and  affec- 
tion the  memorials  of  a  rich  and  exalted  life. 
To  many  who  would  peruse  them  with  in- 
terest the  price  of  these  books  will  be  pro- 
hibitive. Hence  are  set  forth  in  the  follow- 
ing pages  such  facts  as  have  corrected  the 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        13 

writer's  own  impressions  of  the  late  laureate 
and  his  environment  and  shed  new  light  on 
some  phases  of  his  life  and  work. 

No  man  more  resented  the  impertinent 
inquisitiveness  of  a  curiosity-loving  public 
than  did  Alfred  Tennyson.  This  feeling, 
experienced  early  in  life,  deepened  and  in- 
tensified to  the  end.  Its  degree  may  be 
partially  determined  by  the  following  indig- 
nant lines : 

And  you  have  miss'd  the  irreverent  doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  poet's  crown ; 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 

Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  poet  cannot  die, 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old, 
But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 

Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry ; 

Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not  show ; 

Break  lock  and  seal ;  betray  the  trust ; 

Keep  nothing  sacred ;  'tis  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  should  know. 

The  lion-hunting  tourist  was  abhorrent  to 
him.  He  was  very  nearsighted,  and  once 
when  walking  on  the  downs  with  a  friend 
he  saw  some  sheep  which  he  mistook  for 


14        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

tourists  making  toward  him.  He  turned 
and  fled  incontinently  for  home.  Tennyson 
desired  that  his  life  should  be  read  in  hi-s 
published  works.  His  son  says: 

Besides  the  letters  of  my  father  and  of  his  friends 
there  are  his  poems,  and  in  these  we  must  look  for 
the  innermost  sanctuary  of  his  being.  For  my  own 
part  I  feel  strongly  that  no  biographer  could  so 
truly  give  him  as  he  gives  himself  in  his  own  works. 
.  .  .  He  himself  disliked  the  notion  of  a  long,  formal 
biography,  for 

None  can  truly  write  his  single  day, 

And  none  can  write  it  for  him  upon  earth. 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  in  his  father's 
rectory  at  Somersby  in  Lincolnshire.  The 
"long  gray  fields,"  the  fens,  the  sluices,  the 
wolds  about  his  early  home  impressed  him 
deeply,  and  so  stimulated  his  young  imagi- 
nation that  he  almost  "lisped  in  numbers." 
Edward  Fitzgerald  writes:  "I  used  to  say 
Alfred  never  should  have  left  old  Lincoln- 
shire, where  there  were  not  only  such  good 
seas,  but  also  such  fine  Hill  and  Dale  among 
'the  Wolds/  which  he  was  brought  up  in, 
as  people  in  general  scarce  thought  on." 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        IS 

Alfred  was  the  fourth  of  twelve  children 
born  to  Rev.  George  Clayton  Tennyson  and 
Elizabeth  Fytche.  There  were  eight  sons 
and  four  daughters,  most  of  whom,  it  is 
averred,  were  more  or  less  true  poets.  Of 
Alfred's  earliest  attempt  at  poetry  he  says : 

According  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  when  I 
was  about  eight  years  old  I  covered  two  sides  of  a 
slate  with  Thomsonian  blank  verse  in  praise  of 
flowers  for  my  brother  Charles,  who  was  a  year  older 
than  I  was,  Thomson  then  being  the  only  poet  I 
knew.  Before  I  could  read  I  was  in  the  habit  on  a 
stormy  day  of  spreading  my  arms  to  the  wind,  and 
crying  out,  "I  hear  a  voice  that's  speaking  in  the 
wind,"  and  the  words  "far,  far  away"  had  always  a 
strange  charm  for  me. 

The  latter  statement  will  be  interesting  to 
those  who  recall  the  poet's  beautiful  lines 
beginning,  "What  sight  so  lured  him  thro' 
the  fields  he  knew."  It  was  on  the  lawn 
of  the  old  rectory  that  Tennyson  made  his 
early  song,  "A  spirit  haunts  the  year's  last 
hours."  In  his  youth  the  laureate  was  an 
intense  admirer  of  Lord  Byron,  whose  in- 
fluence is  unmistakably  revealed  in  the 
adolescent  publication,  Poems  by  Two 


16        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Brothers.  On  hearing  of  Byron's  death — 
April  19,  1824 — "a  day,"  he  says,  "when 
the  whole  world  seemed  to  be  darkened  for 
me,"  he  carved  on  a  rock  the  words,  "Byron 
is  dead." 

Tennyson  was  well-born.  He  had  the  in- 
estimable advantage  of  good  blood  and 
right  breeding.  The  poet's  father  was  a 
man  of  dominating  intellect.  He  was  a 
Hebrew  and  Syriac  scholar,  and  became 
proficient  in  the  Greek  language  that  he 
might  teach  it  to  his  sons,  whom  he  himself 
prepared  for  Cambridge.  The  rector  of 
Somersby  was  endowed  with  a  splendid 
physique,  standing  six  feet  two,  and  was  an 
energetic  and  powerful  man.  Alfred  in- 
herited these  noble  physical  proportions.  Of 
the  poet's  great  bodily  strength  Brookfield 
remarked,  "It  is  not  fair,  Alfred,  that  you 
should  be  Hercules  as  well  as  Apollo."  In 
proof  of  his  notable  muscular  power  it  is 
related  that  when  showing  to  some  friends 
a  little  pet  pony  on  the  lawn  at  Somersby, 
one  day,  he  surprised  the  spectators  by  tak- 
ing it  up  and  carrying  it.  Fitzgerald  said, 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        17 

"Alfred  could  hurl  the  crowbar  further  than 
any  of  the  neighboring  clowns,  whose  hu- 
mors, as  well  as  those  of  their  betters, 
knight,  squire,  landlord,  and  lieutenant,  he 
took  quiet  note  of,  like  Chaucer  himself." 
Of  the  tender-heartedness  of  the  poet's 
mother  it  is  recorded  that  the  boys  of  a 
neighboring  village  used  to  bring  their  dogs 
to  Mrs.  Tennyson's  windows  and  beat  them, 
in  order  to  be  bribed  to  leave  off,  or  to  in- 
duce her  to  buy  them.  One  source  of 
amusement  at  the  rectory  was  "the  writing 
of  tales  in  letter  form  to  be  placed  under 
the  vegetable  dishes  at  dinner,  and  read 
aloud  when  it  was  over."  It  is  stated  that 
the  future  laureate's  tales  "were  very  vari- 
ous in  theme,  some  of  them  humorous  and 
some  savagely  dramatic,"  and  that  his  broth- 
ers and  sisters  "looked  to  him  as  their  most 
thrilling  story-teller." 

Though  much  ill-advised  criticism  was 
passed  upon  Tennyson  at  the  time  of  his 
elevation  to  the  peerage,  the  poet  was  a 
Tory  by  right  of  birth.  His  views  of  de- 
mocracy were  always  of  a  conservative  na- 


i8        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

ture.  This  conservatism  is  well  illustrated 
by  his  oft-repeated  praises  of  the  restrictive 
character  of  the  fifth  article  of  the  Ameri- 
can Constitution.  Regard  for  the  rights 
and  duties  of  birth  beat  in  the  laureate's 
blood.  Tennyson's  mother  was  Elizabeth 
Fytche.  "The  Fytches  were  a  county  fam- 
ily of  old  descent.  The  first  name  on  the 
Fytche  pedigree  is  John  Fitch  of  Fitch 
castle  in  the  North,  who  died  in  the  twenty- 
fifth  year  of  Edward  I.  His  descendant, 
Thomas  Fitch,  was  knighted  by  Charles  II, 
1679,  served  the  office  of  high  sheriff  in 
Kent,  and  was  created  baronet  September 
7,  1688." 

Probably  no  poet's  muse  ever  brought 
him  more  substantial  returns  than  did  that 
of  Alfred  Tennyson,  though  the  amount 
which  he  received  per  annum  for  his  literary 
work  has  been  much  overrated.  His  in- 
come from  his  published  works  was  never 
more  than  six  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and 
during  the  latter  years  of  his  life  was  much 
less  than  that.  The  first  money  which  he 
earned  by  his  compositions  was  when,  at 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        19 

his  grandfather's  desire,  he  wrote  a  poem 
on  the  death  of  his  grandmother.  The  old 
gentleman  presented  him  a  half  guinea  with 
the  remark,  "Here  is  a  half  guinea  for  you, 
the  first  you  have  ever  earned  by  poetry, 
and  take  my  word  for  it,  the  last." 

Alfred  Tennyson  matriculated  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  February  20,  1828. 
There  his  brother,  Frederick  Tennyson,  was 
already  a  distinguished  scholar.  Alfred's 
friends  and  intimates  at  college  were  Sped- 
ding,  author  of  the  life  of  Bacon;  Milnes 
(Lord  Houghton),  Trench  (afterward 
Archbishop  of  London),  Alford  (afterward 
Dean  of  Canterbury),  Brookfield,  Blakes- 
ley  (afterward  Dean  of  Lincoln),  Thomp- 
son, S.  S.  Rice,  Merivale  (afterward  Dean 
of  Ely),  J.  M.  Kemble,  Heath  (senior 
wrangler  1832),  Charles  Buller,  Monteith, 
Tennant,  and  A.  H.  Hallam.  Here  Tenny- 
son moved  as  a  highly  esteemed  equal 
among  the  brainiest  of  his  associates.  His 
personal  peculiarities  were  respected,  and 
the  development  of  his  genius  was  hailed 
with  delight.  The  poet  says,  "I  kept  a  tame 


20        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

snake  in  my  rooms.  I  liked  to  watch  his 
wonderful  sinuosities  on  the  carpet."  The 
following  verses  on  "The  Moon,"  written  at 
this  period,  show  that  the  unique  Tennyson 
style  had  even  then  been  formed: 

Deep  glens  I  found,  and  sunless  gulfs, 
Set  round  with  many  a  toppling  spire, 

And  monstrous  rocks  from  craggy  mounts, 
Disploding  globes  of  roaring  fire. 

Large  as  a  human  eye  the  sun 

Drew  down  the  West  his  feeble  lights; 

And  then  a  night,  all  moons,  confused 
The  shadows  from  the  icy  heights. 

Of  the  society  of  the  "Apostles,"  an  associa- 
tion of  kindred  spirits,  Tennyson  was  an 
early  member.  "On  stated  evenings,"  says 
Carlyle,  "was  much  logic,  and  other  spirit- 
ual fencing,  and  ingenuous  collision — prob- 
ably of  a  really  superior  quality  in  that 
kind;  for  not  a  few  of  the  then  disputants 
have  since  proved  themselves  men  of  parts, 
and  attained  distinction  in  the  intellectual 
walks  of  life."  In  this  society  of  the 
"Apostles"  were  discussed  such  questions 
as  the  following :  "Have  Shelley's  poems  an 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        21 

immoral  tendency  ?"  Tennyson  votes  "No." 
"Is  an  intelligible  First  Cause  deducible 
from  the  phenomena  of  the  universe  ?"  Ten- 
nyson votes  "No."  "Is  there  any  rule  of 
moral  action  beyond  general  expediency?" 
Tennyson  votes  "Aye."  Tennant  writing 
to  Tennyson  says : 

Last  Saturday  we  had  an  Apostolic  dinner,  when 
we  had  the  honor  among  other  things  of  drinking 
your  health.  Edmund  Lushington  and  I  went  away 
tolerably  early,  but  most  of  them  stayed  till  past  two. 
John  Heath  volunteered  a  song ;  Kemble  got  into  a 
passion  about  nothing,  but  quickly  jumped  out 
again ;  Blakesley  was  afraid  the  proctor  might  come 
in ;  and  Thompson  poured  large  quantities  of  salt 
upon  Douglas  Heath's  head,  because  he  talked  non- 
sense. 

While  yet  in  college  Tennyson  seems  to 
have  anticipated  in  effect  the  theory  of  evo- 
lution, which  in  later  years  was  generally 
associated  with  the  name  of  Charles  Dar- 
win. Tennyson  says  that  "the  development 
of  the  human  body  might  possibly  be  traced 
from  the  radiated,  vermicular,  molluscous, 
and  vertebrate  organisms." 

In  1830  the  volume,  Poems,  Chiefly  Lyr- 


22        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 


lj  was  greeted  with  the  appreciative  ap- 
plause of  a  small  chorus  of  admiring 
friends.  They  prophesied  the  author's  com- 
ing eminence,  but  the  great  world  was  in- 
different. The  previous  year  Arthur  Hallam 
had  written  to  W.  E.  Gladstone,  "I  con- 
sider Tennyson  as  promising  fair  to  be  the 
greatest  poet  of  our  generation."  In  1831, 
after  the  death  of  Tennyson's  father,  when 
it  appeared  that  the  family  were  about  to 
remove  from  Somersby,  Arthur  Hallam  in 
a  spirit  of  prophecy  wrote  to  Emily  Ten- 
nyson, to  whom  he  had  been  attached  for 
about  two  years  : 

Many  years,  perhaps,  or  shall  I  say  many  ages. 
after  we  all  have  been  laid  in  dust,  young  lovers  of 
the  beautiful  and  the  true  may  seek  in  faithful  pil- 
grimage the  spot  where  Alfred's  mind  was  molded  in 
silent  sympathy  with  the  everlasting  forms  of  na- 
ture* Legends  will  perhaps  be  attached  to  the  places 
that  are  near  it  Some  Mariana,  it  will  be  said, 
lived  wretched  and  alone  in  a  dreary  house  on  the 
top  of  the  opposite  hill.  Some  Isabel  may  with  more 
truth  be  sought  nearer  yet.  The  belfry  in  which  the 
white  owl  sat  "warming  his  five  wits"  will  be  shown 
for  sixpence  to  such  travelers  as  have  lost  their 
own.  Critic  after  critic  will  track  the  wanderings 
of  the  brook,  or  mark  groupings  of  elm  and  poplar, 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        23 

in  order  to  verify  the  "Ode  to  Memory,"  in  its  mi- 
nutest particulars. 

At  this  time  Tennyson's  simple  and  abound- 
ing gladness  merely  to  be  alive  is  well  ex- 
pressed in  a  certain  sonnet  entitled  "Life." 

Why  suffers  human  life  so  soon  eclipse  ? 
For  I  could  burst  into  a  psalm  of  praise, 
Seeing  the  heart  so  wondrous  in  her  ways, 
E'en  scorn  looks  beautiful  on  human  lips ! 
Would  I  could  pile  fresh  life  on  life,  and  dull 
The  sharp  desire  of  knowledge  still  with  knowing ! 
Art,  science,  nature,  everything  is  full, 
As  my  own  soul  is  full,  to  overflowing — 
Millions  of  forms,  and  hues,  and  shades,  that  give 
The  difference  of  all  things  to  the  sense, 
And  all  the  likeness  in  the  difference. 
I  thank  thee,  God,  that  thou  hast  made  me  live : 
I  reck  not  for  the  sorrow  or  the  strife : 
One  only  joy  I  know,  the  joy  of  life. 

At  Cambridge  the  "Palace  of  Art"  was 
passed  about  in  manuscript  among  an  elect 
few,  who  admired  it  according  to  its  deserts. 
In  1832  Tennyson  gave  to  the  world  an- 
other volume  of  poems  which,  despite  the 
high  expectations  of  his  friends,  was  but 
coldly  received  by  the  general  public.  The 
Quarterly  Review  was  very  savage  in  its 


24        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

onslaught  upon  the  poet.  In  vain  his  friends 
endeavored  to  cheer  him  by  telling  him 
that  "his  very  creative  originality  and  un- 
likeness  to  any  poet,  his  uncommon  power 
over  varied  meters  and  rare  harmonies  of 
sound  and  sense,  needed  the  creation  of  a 
taste  for  his  work  before  he  could  be  appre- 
ciated." An  old  Lincolnshire  squire,  how- 
ever, expressed  the  estimation  in  which  the 
Quarterly  was  generally  held  when  he  said 
to  Tennyson  that  the  Quarterly  "was  the 
next  book  to  God's  Bible."  After  the  publi- 
cation of  the  1832  volume  ten  years  elapsed 
before  the  poet  again  addressed  the  reading 
world.  Tennyson  was  deeply  discouraged. 
He  fancied  that  England  was  an  uncon- 
genial atmosphere,  and  began  to  think  of 
living  abroad  in  Jersey,  in  the  south  of 
France,  or  in  Italy.  "He  was  so  far  per- 
suaded that  the  English  people  would  never 
care  for  his  poetry  that,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  intervention  of  friends,  he  declared  it 
not  unlikely  that  after  the  death  of  Hallam 
he  would  not  have  continued  to  write." 
The  last  letter  which  Tennyson  received 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        25 

from  his  friend  Hallam  contained  these 
manuscript  lines : 

I  do  but  mock  me  with  the  questionings. 
Dark,  dark,  irrecoverably  dark 
Is  the  soul's  eye ;  yet  how  it  strives  and  battles 
Through  the  impenetrable  gloom  to  fix 
That  master  light,  the  secret  truth  of  things, 
Which  is  the  body  of  the  Infinite  God. 

Arthur  Hallam  died  at  Vienna,  September 
15,  1833.  When  his  father  returned  from 
his  usual  daily  walk  he  saw  Arthur  asleep, 
as  he  supposed,  upon  the  couch.  A  blood 
vessel  near  the  brain  had  suddenly  burst; 
the  young  man  was  not  asleep,  but  dead. 
The  germ  of  that  great  threnody,  "In  Me- 
moriam" — the  one  adequate  and  matchless 
elegy  in  any  language — appears  in  the  fol- 
lowing fragment: 

Where  is  the  voice  I  loved  ?  ah,  where 
Is  that  dear  hand  that  I  would  press  ? 

Lo !  the  broad  heavens,  cold  and  bare, 
The  stars  that  know  not  my  distress ! 

The  vapor  labors  up  the  sky, 

Uncertain  forms  are  darkly  moved ! 

Larger  than  human  passes  by 
The  shadow  of  the  man  I  loved, 

And  clasps  his  hands,  as  one  that  prays ! 


26        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Under  the  shadow  of  this  great  loss  and 
sorrow  was  begun  the  poem  entitled  "The 
Two  Voices."  The  poet  was  most  exacting 
as  to  his  art.  It  is  said  that  "The  Brook" 
was  actually  rescued  from  the  waste-paper 
heap.  His  fine  sense  of  proportion  caused 
him  to  elide  from  "The  Two  Voices"  so 
excellent  a  stanza  as  this : 

From  when  his  baby  pulses  beat 
To  when  his  hands  in  their  last  heat 
Pick  at  the  death-mote  in  the  sheet. 

To  adverse  criticism  Tennyson  was  sensi- 
tive in  an  extreme  degree ;  not,  he  declared, 
so  far  as  his  art  was  concerned,  but  because 
of  the  petty  personal  spites  and  wretched 
meannesses  disclosed.  On  the  other  hand, 
intelligent  praise  instantly  gave  him  encour- 
agement, and  a  favorable  review  from  far- 
off  Calcutta  could  so  brace  the  poet's  spirits 
as  to  make  him  warm  to  his  work.  We  are 
told  that  the  localities  of  Tennyson's  sub- 
ject poems  are  wholly  imaginary.  He  him- 
self says  of  "The  Miller's  Daughter,"  which 
was  much  altered  and  enlarged  from  the 
edition  of  1832,  "The  mill  was  no  particular 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        27 

mill;  if  I  thought  at  all  of  any  mill,  it  was 
that  of  Trumpington  near  Cambridge." 

The  grandfather  desired  to  make  parsons 
of  all  the  Tennyson  brothers,  but  only  one — 
Charles — fulfilled  this  pious  wish.  Charles 
and  Alfred  married  sisters,  daughters  of 
Henry  Sellwood,  Esq.  Arthur  Hallam,  who 
was  visiting  at  Somersby  rectory,  asked 
Emily  Sellwood  to  walk  with  him  in  the 
Fairy  Wood.  At  a  turn  of  the  path  they 
came  upon  Alfred  Tennyson,  "who,  at  the 
sight  of  the  slender,  beautiful  girl  of  seven- 
teen in  her  simple  gray  dress,  moving  'like 
a  light  across  the  woodland  ways/  suddenly 
said  to  her,  'Are  you  a  dryad  or  an  oread 
wandering  here  ?'  "  The  long-dreaded  sep- 
aration from  Somersby  took  place  in  1837. 
After  this  the  Tennysons  flitted  several 
times,  first  to  High  Beech  in  Epping  Forest, 
then  to  Tunbridge  Wells,  thence  to  Boxley 
near  Maidstone.  In  1839  tne  Poet  wrote  to 
Emily  Sellwood,  his  future  wife :  "Perhaps 
I  am  coming  to  the  Lincolnshire  coast,  but 
I  scarcely  know.  The  journey  is  so  expen- 
sive and  I  am  so  poor."  Again,  "I  shall 


28        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

never  see  the  Eternal  City,  nor  that  dome, 
the  wonder  of  the  world;  I  do  not  think  I 
would  live  there  if  I  could,  and  I  have  no 
money  for  touring."  After  1840  all  corre- 
spondence between  Alfred  Tennyson  and 
Emily  Sellwood  was  forbidden,  since  there 
seemed  to  be  no  prospect  of  their  ever  being 
married,  owing  to  a  perpetual  want  of 
funds.  The  poet  was  forty-one  years  old 
when  he  at  length  found  it  possible  to  wed 
the  woman  of  his  choice.  Not  until  that 
time  did  his  poems  bring  him  even  a  limited 
competency.  His  courtship  was  a  long  ro- 
mance of  hope,  and  patience,  and  trust.  In 
after  years  he  said  of  his  bride,  ''The  peace 
of  God  came  into  my  life  before  the  altar 
when  I  wedded  her."  She  was  the  poet's 
earliest  and  latest  critic,  to  whose  judg- 
ment he  always  deferred.  Their  domestic 
life  was  supremely  happy,  and  of  the  wife 
some  of  her  friends  were  wont  to  say,  "She 
is  as  great  as  Alfred."  As  an  illustration 
of  her  character  Jowett  was  told  by  Tenny- 
son that  his  wife  once  said,  "When  I  pray 
I  see  the  face  of  God  smiling  upon  me." 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        29 

Tennyson's  memory  of  his  mother,  whose 
portrait  he  has  so  beautifully  drawn  in  "The 
Princess/'  and  the  poet's  gentle  and  lovely 
wife  increased,  if  possible,  his  natural  chiv- 
alry toward  women.  Before  his  marriage 
he  thus  writes  to  Miss  Sellwood:  "A  good 
woman  is  a  wondrous  creature,  cleaving  to 
the  right  and  the  good  in  all  change,  lovely 
in  her  youthful  comeliness,  lovely  all  her 
life  long  in  comeliness  of  heart."  To  a 
friend  he  said,  "I  would  pluck  my  hand 
from  a  man,  even  if  he  were  my  greatest 
hero,  or  dearest  friend,  if  he  wronged  a 
woman,  or  told  her  a  lie." 

We  learn  that  it  was  in  the  latter  part  of 
1837,  or  the  beginning  of  1838,  that  Tenny- 
son appears  to  have  first  become  known  in 
America.  About  that  time  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson  somehow  made  acquaintance  with 
the  1830  and  1832  volumes,  and  delighted 
in  lending  them  to  his  friends.  In  Novem- 
ber, 1850,  after  the  death  of  Wordsworth, 
Alfred  Tennyson  was  appointed  poet- 
laureate.  The  appointment  was  owing 

chiefly  to  Prince  Albert's  admiration  for 
3 


30        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

"In  Memoriam."  From  this  time  onward 
more  prosperous  days  began  to  dawn  upon 
him.  Previously,  because  of  straitened  cir- 
cumstances, he  had  ridden  in  third-class 
railway  carriages,  and  had  complained  that 
it  was  "expensive  being  at  an  inn."  Six 
years  later,  upon  the  publication  of  "Maud," 
of  which  thirty  thousand  copies  were  sold 
immediately,  he  was  enabled  to  purchase 
with  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  that  poem 
the  beautiful  home  at  "Farringford"  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight.  What  other  poet,  of  this  or 
any  former  century,  was  possessed  of  two 
such  homes  as  "Farringford"  and  "Aid- 
worth"? 

Perhaps  we  may  again  advert  to  the  sense- 
less outcry  which  was  raised  when  Tenny- 
son accepted  a  place  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
In  reply  to  a  letter  from  Gladstone  upon  the 
subject  the  poet  wrote : 

I  speak  frankly  to  you  when  I  say  that  I  had 
rather  we  should  remain  plain  "Mr."  and  "Mrs." 
and  that,  if  it  were  possible,  the  title  should  first  be 
assumed  by  our  son  at  any  age  it  may  be  thought 
right  to  fix  upon ;  but,  like  enough,  this  is  against 
all  precedent,  and  could  not  be  managed ;  and  on  no 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        31 

account  would  I  have  suggested  it  were  there  the 
least  chance  of  the  queen's  construing  it  into  a  slight 
of  the  proffered  honor.  I  hope  that  I  have  too  much 
of  the  old-world  loyalty  left  in  me  not  to  wear  my 
lady's  favors  against  all  comers,  should  you  think 
that  it  would  be  more  agreeable  to  her  majesty  that 
I  should  do  so. 

It  was  with  reluctance  that  Tennyson  final- 
ly accepted  a  barony,  after  a  baronetcy  had 
been  three  times  previously  urged  upon  him. 
He  makes  his  own  position  sufficiently  clear 
in  the  following  lines  to  a  friend : 

Why  should  I  be  selfish  and  not  suffer  an  honor — 
as  Gladstone  says — to  be  done  to  literature  in  my 
name?  For  myself  I  felt,  especially  in  the  dark 
days  that  may  be  coming  on,  that  a  peerage  might 
possibly  be  more  of  a  disadvantage  than  an  advantage 
to  my  sons ;  I  cannot  tell.  I  have  been  worried  be- 
cause, being  of  a  nervous,  sensitive  nature,  I  wished 
as  soon  as  possible  to  get  over  the  disagreeable  re- 
sults, and  the  newspaper  comments  and  abuse. 

Tennyson's  political  utterances  are  among 
the  wisest  of  his  time.  He  was  deeply  in- 
terested in  the  politics  of  the  world,  partic- 
ularly whatever  affected  his  own  country. 
Speaking  of  England  and  Ireland,  he  said : 

The  Celtic  race  does  not  easily  amalgamate  with 
other  races,  as  those  of  Scandinavian  origin  do,  as 


32        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

for  instance  Saxon  and  Norman,  which  have  fused 
perfectly.  The  Teuton  has  no  poetry  in  his  nature 
like  the  Celt,  and  this  makes  the  Celt  much  more 
dangerous  in  politics,  for  he  yields  more  to  his  im- 
agination than  his  common  sense.  Yet  his  imag- 
ination does  not  allow  of  his  realizing  the  sufferings 
of  poor  dumb  beasts.  The  Irish  are  difficult  for  us 
to  deal  with.  For  one  thing  the  English  do  not  un- 
derstand their  innate  love  of  fighting,  words  and 
blows.  If  on  either  side  of  an  Irishman's  road  to 
paradise  shillalahs  grew,  which  automatically  hit 
him  on  the  head,  yet  he  would  not  be  satisfied.  Sup- 
pose that  we  allowed  Ireland  to  separate  from  us ; 
owing  to  its  factions  she  would  soon  fall  a  prey  to 
some  foreign  power.  She  has  absolute  freedom  now, 
and  a  more  than  full  share  in  the  government  of  one 
of  the  mightiest  empires  in  the  world.  Whatever  she 
may  say,  she  is  not  only  feudal,  but  oriental,  and 
loves  those  in  authority  over  her  to  have  the  iron 
hand  in  the  silken  glove.  Let  the  demagogues  re- 
member, "Liberty  forgetful  of  others  is  license,  and 
nothing  better  than  treason."  ...  It  was  the  mob 
who  smashed  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  windows  on 
the  anniversary  of  Waterloo.  As  Goethe  says,  "The 
worst  thing  in  the  world  is  ignorance  in  motion." 

He  thus  writes  to  Walt  Whitman  regarding 
the  American  Constitution : 

The  coming  year  should  give  new  life  to  every 
American  who  has  breathed  a  breath  of  that  soul 
which  inspired  the  great  founders  of  the  American 
Constitution,  whose  work  you  are  to  celebrate. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        33 

Truly,  the  mother  country,  pondering  on  this,  may 
feel  that  how  much  soever  the  daughter  owes  to  her 
she,  the  mother,  has  nevertheless  something  to  learn 
from  the  daughter.  Especially  I  would  note  the 
care  taken  to  guard  a  noble  Constitution  from  rash 
and  unwise  innovators.  .  .  ,  Every  agitator  should 
be  made  to  prove  his  means  of  livelihood. 

Once  more: 

We  ought  not  to  show  our  arsenals  and  dockyards 
to  the  world,  as  we  do.  Want  of  confidence  is  hate- 
ful among  members  of  a  family,  but  want  of  confi- 
dence is  necessary  among  nations. 

The  earliest  memorandum  for  the  King 
Arthur  epics  is  extremely  interesting.  In 
it  the  poet  says:  "Two  Guineveres.  Ye 
first  prim.  Christianity.  2a  Roman  Cathol- 
icism. Ye  first  is  put  away  and  dwells  apart. 
2d  Guinevere  flies.  Arthur  takes  to  the  first 
again,  but  finds  her  changed  by  lapse  of 
time."  For  thirty  years  Tennyson  medi- 
tated the  Arthurian  poems.  Like  Milton 
before  him,  he  had  early  been  impressed  by 
the  legend  of  King  Arthur,  and  intended  to 
weave  it  into  a  new  form.  In  view  of  the 
various  interpretations  which  have  been  put 
upon  the  "Idylls  of  the  King"  the  poet's 


34        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

own  explanation  of  them  is  of  value.  "The 
whole,"  he  said,  "is  the  dream  of  man  com- 
ing into  practical  life  and  ruined  by  one  sin. 
Birth  is  a  mystery  and  death  is  a  mystery, 
and  in  the  midst  lies  the  table-land  of  life 
and  its  struggles  and  performances.  It  is 
not  the  history  of  one  man  or  of  one  govern- 
ment, but  of  a  whole  cycle  of  generations." 
Alfred  Tennyson  was  always  reverent 
toward  revealed  religion  and  respectful 
toward  its  ministers.  He  said  of  the  Bible 
that  it  "ought  to  be  read,  were  it  only  for 
the  sake  of  the  grand  English  in  which  it  is 
written,  an  education  in  itself."  Once  in  a 
serious  illness  he  said  of  the  Book  of  Job 
that  he  thought  it  "one  of  the  greatest  of 
books,"  and  asked  to  have  read  to  him  the 
"little  children,  love  one  another"  passage 
from  St.  John,  and  also  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount,  for  which  he  possessed  a  measure- 
less admiration.  His  attitude  toward  Christ 
was  that  of  an  old  saint  or  mystic.  It  was 
his  opinion  that  "The  Son  of  Man"  was 
"the  most  tremendous  title  possible;"  and 
that  the  "most  pathetic  utterance  in  all  his- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        35 

tory  was  that  of  Christ  on  the  cross,  'It  is 
finished,'  after  that  passionate  cry,  'My 
God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken 
me  ?' "  Said  he,  "Indeed,  what  matters  it 
how  much  man  knows  and  does,  if  he  keeps 
not  a  reverential  looking  upward?  He  is 
only  the  subtlest  beast  in  the  field."  It  was 
thus  he  regarded  prayer :  "Prayer  is,  to  take 
a  mundane  simile,  like  opening  a  sluice  be- 
tween the  great  ocean  and  our  little  chan- 
nels when  the  great  sea  gathers  itself  to- 
gether and  flows  in  at  full  tide.  .  .  .  Prayer 
on  our  part  is  the  highest  aspiration  of  the 
soul."  He  discoursed  much  with  his  friends 
on  religious  questions,  and  of  Christianity 
observed,  "It  is  tugging  at  my  heart."  He 
further  said : 

Almost  the  finest  summing  up  of  religion  is  to  do 
justice,  to  love  mercy,  and  to  walk  humbly  with  God. 
.  .  .  Take  away  the  sense  of  individual  responsi- 
bility, and  men  sink  into  pessimism  and  madness. 
.  .  .  Man's  free  will  is  but  a  bird  in  the  cage ;  he  can 
stop  at  the  lower  perch,  or  he  can  mount  to  a  higher. 
Then  that  which  is  and  knows  will  enlarge  his  cage, 
give  him  a  higher  and  higher  perch,  and  at  last  break 
off  the  top  of  his  cage,  and  let  him  out  to  be  one 
with  the  free  will  ef  the  universe.  ...  It  is  motive, 


36        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

it  is  the  great  purpose,  which  consecrates  life.  The 
real  test  of  a  man  is  not  what  he  knows,  but  what  he 
is  in  himself  and  in  his  relation  to  others.  For  in- 
stance, can  he  battle  against  his  own  bad  inherited 
instincts,  or  brave  public  opinion  in  the  cause  of 
truth?  The  love  of  God  is  the  true  basis  of  duty, 
truth,  reverence,  loyalty,  love,  virtue,  and  work.  I 
believe  in  these,  although  I  feel  the  emptiness  and 
hollowness  of  much  of  life.  "Be  ye  perfect  as  your 
Father  in  heaven  is  perfect."  .  .  .  Evil  must  come 
upon  us  headlong,  if  morality  tries  to  get  on  without 
religion.  .  .  .  Beware  of  breaking  up  the  soil  of  any 
faith  when  you  have  no  better  seed  to  sow.  ...  I 
dread  the  losing  hold  of  forms.  I  have  expressed 
this  in  my  "Akbar."  There  must  be  forms,  yet  I 
hate  the  need  for  so  many  sects  and  separate  services. 

His  faith  in  a  divine  Personality  was  abso- 
lute, as  many  rememberable  utterances 
testify : 

I  should  infinitely  rather  feel  myself  the  most  mis- 
erable wretch  on  the  face  of  the  earth  with  a  God 
above  than  the  highest  type  of  a  man  standing  alone. 
.  .  .  The  soul  seems  to  me  one  with  God.  I  can 
sympathize  with  God  in  my  poor  little  way.  ...  It 
is  hard  to  believe  in  God ;  but  it  is  harder  not  to  be- 
lieve. I  believe  in  God,  not  from  what  I  see  in  na- 
ture, but  from  what  I  find  in  man.  .  .  .  Love  is  the 
highest  we  feel,  therefore  we  must  believe  that  "God 
is  love."  We  cannot  but  believe  that  the  creation  is 
infinite,  if  God  is  infinite.  ...  I  believe  that  God 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        37 

reveals  himself  in  every  individual  soul ;  and  my  idea 
of  heaven  is  perpetual  ministry  of  one  soul  to  an- 
other. 

In  April,  1886,  the  poet  was  called  upon 
to  enter  the  deep  waters  of  an  overwhelm- 
ing sorrow  in  the  death  of  his  son  Lionel, 
who  passed  away  on  shipboard  as  he  was 
returning  from  India,  and  was  buried  in 
the  Red  Sea.  It  is  written  of  this  son  that 
from  his  "earliest  childhood  his  had  always 
been  an  affectionate  and  beautiful  nature." 
The  faith  which  the  laureate  had  so  long 
cherished  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul  now 
afforded  him  supreme  solace.  His  utter- 
ances touching  this  great  subject  are  as 
trenchant  as  they  are  wise.  He  came  much 
into  contact  with  the  agnosticism  of  the  day, 
but  never  for  a  moment  loosed  his  grasp  of 
the  eternal  hope.  He  declared  the  after- 
life to  be  the  cardinal  part  of  Christ's  teach- 
ing. When  Tyndall  once  said  to  him,  "God 
and  spirit  I  know,  and  matter  I  know ;  and 
I  believe  in  both,"  remarking  further,  "we 
may  all  be  absorbed  into  the  Godhead," 
Tennyson  replied,  "Suppose  that  he  is  the 


38       LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

real  person,  and  we  are  only  relatively  per- 
sonal." He  was  interested  to  learn  that 
Tyndall  was  convinced  that  life  could  not 
originate  without  life.  In  a  manuscript  note 
upon  his  poem  "Vastness"  he  has  recorded 
the  following:  "What  matters  anything  in 
this  world  without  full  faith  in  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul  and  of  love?"  In  a  letter 
to  the  queen  he  writes:  "As  to  the  suffer- 
ings of  this  momentary  life,  we  can  but  trust 
that  in  some  after  state,  when  we  see 
clearer,  we  shall  thank  the  Supreme  Power 
for  having  made  us,  through  these,  higher 
and  greater  beings."  A  lady  whose  friend 
he  had  been  from  her  childhood  he  thus 
consoles  upon  the  loss  of  her  son : 

The  son  whom  you  so  loved  is  not  really  what  we 
call  dead,  but  more  actually  living  than  when  alive 
here.  You  cannot  catch  the  voice,  or  feel  the  hands, 
or  kiss  the  cheeks,  that  is  all ;  a  separation  for  an 
hour,  not  an  eternal  farewell.  If  it  were  not  so  that 
which  made  us  would  seem  too  cruel  a  power  to  be 
worshiped,  and  could  not  be  loved. 

He  addresses  the  following  words  to  Lord 
Houghton  on  the  death  of  the  latter 's  wife : 
"I  may  say  that  I  think  I  can  see,  as  far  as 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        39 

anyone  can  see  in  this  twilight,  that  the 
nobler  nature  does  not  pass  from  its  indi- 
viduality when  it  passes  out  of  this  one  life." 
As  a  dramatic  writer  Tennyson  will  be 
esteemed  more  highly  with  the  lapse  of  time. 
When  his  plays  first  appeared  almost  with- 
out exception  they  were  decried  by  all  ex- 
cept a  few  special  friends.  The  "general," 
to  whom  "Harold,"  "May,"  and  "Becket" 
were  "caviare,"  seemed  to  resent  his  put- 
ting aside  his  character  as  a  lyric  and  epic 
poet  to  become  a  dramatist.  Yet  his  dramas 
were  admired  by  such  rare  judges  of  lit- 
erary excellence  as  James  Spedding,  George 
H.  Lewes,  and  George  Eliot.  Tennyson 
knew  when  his  work  was  good  and  was 
willing  that  it  should  wait  for  the  ratifica- 
tion of  time.  Said  he:  "Thank  God,  the 
time  is  past  for  the  press  to  make  or  mar  a 
poem,  play,  or  artist.  Few  original  things 
are  well  received  at  first.  People  must  grow 
accustomed  to  what  is  out  of  the  common 
before  adopting  it."  From  bitter  moods  of 
despondency  the  poet  was  preserved  by  a 
quiet  and  sometimes  grim  sense  of  humor 


40        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

and  of  the  dramatic  aspect  of  things.  He 
used  to  tell  with  delight  of  Aubrey  de 
Vere's  view  of  eternal  punishment:  "Of 
course  it  will  be  listening  to  Huxley  and 
Tyndall  disputing  eternally  on  the  nonexist- 
ence  of  God." 

Throughout  his  life  the  laureate  was  an 
idealist  of  the  noblest  type.  He  dwelt  ha- 
bitually in  the  region  of  rare  and  beautiful 
fancies,  yet  his  outlook  upon  life  was  ever 
sane  and  just.  He  never  for  a  moment 
failed  to  discern  the  unity  of  the  highest  art 
and  the  highest  morality.  Said  he: 

"I  agree  with  Wordsworth  that  art  is  selection. 
Look  at  Zola,  for  instance :  he  shows  the  evils  of  the 
world  without  the  ideal.  His  art  becomes  mon- 
strous therefore,  because  he  does  not  practice  selec- 
tion. In  the  noblest  genius  there  is  need  of  self- 
restraint."  "The  moral  higher  imagination  enslaved 
to  sense  is  like  an  eagle  caught  by  the  feet  in  a  snare, 
baited  with  carrion,  so  that  it  cannot  use  its  wings  to 
soar." 

His  final  views  concerning  woman  and  her 
relation  to  the  world  did  not  differ  from 
those  so  luminously  set  forth  in  "The 
Princess."  One  of  his  latest  dicta  was: 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        41 

"Especially  do  I  want  people  to  recognize 
that  the  women  of  our  western  hemisphere 
represent  the  highest  type  of  women,  great- 
ly owing  to  the  respect  and  honor  paid  to 
them  by  men,  but  that  the  moment  the  honor 
and  respect  are  diminished  the  high  type  of 
woman  will  vanish."  That  the  loftiest  in- 
spirations belong  to  the  ideal  world  he  de- 
clared when  he  said,  "Poetry  is  truer  than 
fact."  We  are  told  that  with  passionate 
earnestness  he  once  spoke:  "Yes,  it  is  true 
that  there  are  moments  when  the  flesh  is 
nothing  to  me,  when  I  feel  and  know  the 
flesh  to  be  the  vision,  God  and  the  spiritual 
the  only  real  and  true.  Depend  upon  it,  the 
spiritual  is  the  real ;  it  belongs  to  one  more 
than  the  hand  and  the  foot." 

Tennyson  was  an  incessant  reader  in  all 
directions  —  travels,  astronomy,  natural 
science,  philosophy,  and  theology.  His  lit- 
erary taste  was  of  a  most  catholic  nature. 
He  kept  abreast  of  the  literary  development 
of  his  time,  and  read  Stevenson,  George 
Meredith,  Walter  Besant,  Black,  Hardy, 
Henry  James,  Marion  Crawford,  Anstey, 


42        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Barrie,  Blackmore,  Conan  Doyle,  Miss  Brad- 
don,  Miss  Lawless,  Ouida,  Miss  Broughton, 
Lady  Margaret  Majendie,  Edna  Lyall,  Mrs. 
Oliphant,  Hall  Caine,  and  J.  H.  Shorthouse. 
His  observations  concerning  men  and  books 
were  as  trenchant  as  they  were  true : 

"Keats  is  not  a  master  of  blank  verse."  He  "prom- 
ised securely  more  than  any  other  English  poet  since 
Milton."  "Byron's  merits  are  on  the  surface.  This 
is  not  the  case  with  Wordsworth.  You  must  love 
Wordsworth  ere  he  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love." 
"Browning  never  greatly  cares  about  the  glory  of 
words  or  beauty  of  form.  .  .  .  He  has  plenty  of  mu- 
sic in  him,  but  he  cannot  get  it  out." 

Of  George  Eliot's  novels  he  liked  best  A  dam 
Bede,  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  and  Silas 
Marner.  Ronwla  he  thought  somewhat  out 
of  her  depth. 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  characterized  by 
the  utmost  simplicity  of  life.  He  loved  Na- 
ture in  her  every  mood,  and  she  took  him 
to  her  inmost  heart.  It  is  recorded  of  him 
that  "throughout  the  winter  he  fed  the 
thrushes  and  other  birds  as  usual  out  of 
his  window."  Nor  was  he  a  recluse,  but  on 
the  contrary  an  extremely  hospitable  man. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        43 

He  generally  urged  a  parting  guest's  return 
with  the  words,  "Come  whenever  you  like." 
Though  relentlessly  pursued  by  curiosity 
hunters,  and  apparently  sometimes  abrupt 
and  brusque,  he  was  really  a  patient  and 
tolerant  man.  One  day  an  American  sud- 
denly appeared  at  Aldworth,  saying  that  he 
had  worked  his  way  across  the  Atlantic  in 
a  cattle  ship  in  order  to  recite  "Maud"  to 
the  author  thereof.  The  poet  pitied  the 
man,  listened  to  the  recitation,  and  paid  the 
reciter's  passage  back  to  America. 

Tennyson  was  an  artificer  in  words.  The 
glory  and  the  value  of  language  afforded 
him  perpetual  satisfaction.  It  was  his  cus- 
tom to  express  in  a  line  or  two  awe-in- 
spiring and  beautiful  phases  of  natural  phe- 
nomena; these  lines  were  written  down  in 
notebooks  and  afterward  duly  and  fittingly 
incorporated  in  poems  now  familiar  to  the 
world.  It  has  been  well  said  that  "The 
Talking  Oak"  is  an  example  of  Tennyson's 
unusual  power  of  humanizing  external  na- 
ture and  of  investing  it  with  the  feelings 
and  attributes  of  human  kind.  It  is  inter- 


44        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

esting  to  know,   on  the  authority  of  the 
laureate  himself,  that  the  lines, 

I  held  it  truth  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 

have  reference  to  Goethe,  for  whom  Ten- 
nyson entertained  an  abiding  admiration. 

Though  the  poet  was  excessively  shy  in 
the  presence  of  strangers,  when  the  strange- 
ness had  worn  away  his  companionship  was 
delightful.  One  of  his  friends  speaks  of  his 
"gay,  boyish  humor,  the  sunny  sweetness, 
the  delight  in  life  that  never  failed."  Jow- 
ett  says: 

His  repertory  of  stories  was  perfectly  inexhaust- 
ible ;  they  were  often  about  slight  matters  that  would 
scarcely  bear  repetition,  but  were  told  with  such  life- 
like reality  that  they  convulsed  his  hearers  with 
laughter.  Like  most  story-tellers,  he  often  repeated 
his  favorites ;  but,  like  children,  his  audience  liked 
hearing  them  again  and  again,  and  he  enjoyed  telling 
them.  It  might  be  said  of  him  that  he  told  more 
stories  than  anyone,  but  was  by  no  means  the  reg- 
ular story-teller.  In  the  commonest  conversation  he 
showed  himself  a  man  of  genius. 

Tennyson's  conversation  was  of  so  rich  and 
varied  a  kind  and  the  choiceness  of  his  Ian- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        45 

guage  was  such  that  Fitzgerald  once  de- 
clared, "I  wish  I  had  been  A.  T/s  Boswell." 
In  his  domestic  life  the  poet  was  happy  be- 
yond measure.  He  greeted  his  friends  with- 
in the  portals  of  his  home  with  a  cordiality 
and  unaffected  courtesy  possible  only  to  a 
great  nature.  There,  upon  request,  to  rapt 
listeners  he  would  read  his  poems  in  that 
full  organ-voice  of  which  Carlyle  once  re- 
marked, "It  is  like  the  sound  of  a  pine- 
wood."  Edmund  Lushington  also  speaks 
of  "the  deep  melodious  thunder"  of  the 
laureate's  voice.  His  reading  of  "Guine- 
vere" once  made  George  Eliot  weep.  Ten- 
nyson's heart  was  ever  tender  and  kind,  and 
moved  by  the  most  precious  instincts  of  the 
race.  Of  vivisection  he  said : 

Without  anaesthetics  no  animal  should  be  cut  open 
for  the  sake  of  science.  I  have  been  reading  of  the 
horrible  and  brutal  experiments  in  Italy  and  France, 
and  my  whole  heart  goes  out  to  a  certain  writer  in 
the  Spectator,  who  declared  he  had  yet  to  find  out 
mankind  was  worth  the  cruel  torture  of  a  single 
dumb  animal. 

He  writes  to  Mary  Howitt  concerning  the 

household  affections :  "I  wish  that  we  Eng- 
4 


46       LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

landers  dealt  more  in  such  symbols,  that  we 
dressed  our  affections  up  in  a  little  more 
poetical  costume;  real  warmth  of  heart 
would  lose  nothing,  rather  gain  by  it.  As 
it  is,  our  manners  are  as  cold  as  the  walls 
of  our  churches." 

Lord  Tennyson  was  a  man  of  wide  learn- 
ing. He  was  familiar  with  the  Greek,  Lat- 
in, Hebrew,  German,  and  Italian  languages, 
and  had  some  acquaintance  with  the  Persian. 
He  was  young  in  heart  to  the  very  last,  as 
all  great  genius  has  ever  been.  One  of  his 
favorite  sayings  was,  "Make  the  lives  of 
children  as  beautiful  and  as  happy  as  possi- 
ble." His  was  an  ingenuous  and  confiding 
nature,  unworldly  in  the  sense  that  in 
thought  he  abode  in  pure  regions  above  the 
sordid  things  of  life.  At  least  one  of  his 
friends  has  said  that  his  entire  trustfulness 
was  sometimes  almost  pathetic.  His  per- 
sonal appearance  was  such  as  to  command 
attention  wherever  he  might  be.  The  fol- 
lowing is  Carlyle's  portrait  of  the  poet: 

Some  weeks  ago,  one  night,  the  poet  Tennyson  and 
Matthew  Allen  were  discovered  here  smoking  in  the 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        47 

garden.  Tennyson  had  been  here  before,  but  was 
still  new  to  Jane,  who  was  alone  for  the  first  hour  or 
two  of  it.  A  fine,  large-featured,  dim-eyed,  bronze- 
colored,  shaggy-headed  man  is  Alfred ;  dusty,  smoky, 
free  and  easy ;  who  swims  outwardly  and  inwardly, 
with  great  composure  in  an  articulate  element  as  of 
tranquil  chaos  and  tobacco  smoke ;  great  now  and 
then  when  he  does  emerge ;  a  most  restful,  brotherly, 
solid-hearted  man. 

Mrs.  Carlyle's  portrait  of  the  poet  is  equally 
vivid  and  characteristic: 

Get- his  [Tennyson's]  poems  if  you  can,  and  read 
the  "Ulysses,"  "Dora,"  the  "Vision  of  Sin,"  and  you 
will  find  that  we  do  not  overrate  him.  Besides,  he 
is  a  very  handsome  man,  and  a  noble-hearted  one, 
with  something  of  the  gypsy  in  his  appearance,  which 
for  me  is  perfectly  charming.  Babbie  never  saw 
him,  unfortunately,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  fortu- 
nately, for  she  must  have  fallen  in  love  with  him  on 
the  spot,  unless  she  be  made  absolutely  of  ice ;  and 
then  men  of  genius  have  never  anything  to  keep 
wives  upon. 

A  delineation  by  still  another  hand  affords 
us  an  additional  impression  of  the  poet's 
uniqueness  and  individuality : 

I  saw  a  tall,  large  figure,  cloak  and  large  black 
wide-awake.  He  had  no  beard  or  mustache.  I  rec- 
ollect being  impressed  with  the  beauty  and  power 


48        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

of  his  mouth  and  chin.  His  face  is  full  of  power 
and  thought ;  a  deep  furrow  runs  from  nose  to  chin 
on  either  side,  and  gives  a  peculiar  expression  to  the 
face ;  a  lofty  forehead  adds  to  this.  I  remember  the 
splendor  of  his  eyes. 

A  great  personality  is  always,  in  an  ap- 
preciable degree,  an  accurate  embodiment 
of  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  Thus  Tenny- 
son gave  voice  to  the  unrest,  the  forebod- 
ings, the  conquests,  the  questionings,  and 
the  aspirations  of  this  transitional  century. 
Though  he  heard  "the  sullen  Lethe  rolling 
doom"  on  all  things  here,  the  world  will  not 
permit  his  name  to  perish  while  manhood, 
faith,  and  duty,  and  the  love  of  the  good, 
the  beautiful,  and  the  true,  are  cherished 
among  our  kind.  As  Froude  has  said,  the 
world  will  not  soon  see  such  another,  for 
the  modern  unquiet,  impatient  Zeitgeist  is 
against  the  production  of  any  such  great 
meditative  spirit.  In  the  Pantheon  of  Eng- 
land's glory  and  renown,  "where  the  huge 
minster's  shadowy  arches  soar,"  there  rests 
no  more  sacred  dust  than  that  of  Alfred 
Tennyson. 


II 

WILLIAM    MORRIS— POET, 

SOCIALIST,  AND  MASTER 

OF  MANY  CRAFTS 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        Si 


II 

WILLIAM    MORRIS— POET,   SOCIALIST, 
AND   MASTER   OF   MANY   CRAFTS 

COULD  that  blithe  old  singer  of  the 
"breathing  morn,"  from  his  pleasant  "lodge 
within  a  park,"  come  stepping  briskly  along 
our  noisy  nineteenth-century  ways,  bring- 
ing with  him  the  scent  of  English  fields, 
and  notes  of  mavis  and  of  merle — could 
Geoffrey  Chaucer  with  ruddy  cheeks,  kind- 
ly eyes,  and  pointed  beard,  his  flowing  locks 
surmounted  by  a  sheepskin  cap,  appear  sud- 
denly to  our  weary  eyes  with  all  the  buoy- 
ancy of  his  own  fresh  day — even  outward- 
ly he  might  not  differ  greatly  from  that 
virile  and  sturdy  figure  which,  to  the  pres- 
ent generation,  has  been  known  as  William 
Morris.  As  story-tellers  Geoffrey  Chaucer 
and  William  Morris  are  akin.  Ancient 
Woodstock  and  modern  Kelmscott  meet 
where  these  minstrels  chant.  Although  in 
art  Chaucer  and  Morris  are  closely  related, 


52        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

in  the  products  of  their  pens  they  are  no- 
tably dissimilar. 

William  Morris  was  of  Welsh  extraction. 
He  was  the  eldest  son  of  his  parents,  and 
was  born  in  the  village  of  W^althamstow, 
Essex,  on  March  24,  1834.  He  himself  says 
in  News  from  Nowhere:  "I  was  born  and 
bred  on  the  edge  of  Epping  Forest,  Wal- 
thamstow  and  Woodford,  to  wit.  ...  A 
pretty  place,  too,  a  very  jolly  place,  now 
that  the  trees  have  had  time  to  grow  again 
since  the  great  clearing  of  houses  in  1855." 
In  the  same  work  he  speaks  of  the  lovely 
river  Lee,  "where  old  Izaak  Walton  used  to 
fish  about  the  places  called  Stratford  and 
Old  Ford."  In  a  letter  to  The  Daily  Chron- 
icle he  says  of  Epping  Forest:  "When  I 
was  a  boy  and  young  man  I  knew  it  yard 
by  yard  from  Wanstead  to  the  Theydons, 
and  from  Hale  End  to  Fairlop  Oak.  In 
those  days  it  had  no  worse  foes  than  the 
gravel  stealer  and  the  robbing  fence-maker, 
and  was  always  interesting  and  often  very 
beautiful." 

Morris's  artistic  sense  developed  early. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        53 

It  is  recorded  that  as  a  boy  of  nine  years, 
with  a  pony  of  his  own,  he  rode  half  Essex 
over  in  search  of  old  churches.  So  deep 
an  impression  did  the  results  of  these  re- 
searches make  upon  his  mind  that,  after  an 
interval  of  many  years,  he  could  remember 
the  details  of  a  building  which  he  had  not 
seen  since  his  bo3rhood.  It  was  from  Sir 
Walter  Scott  that  Morris  imbibed  his  first 
taste  for  art  and  romance.  At  the  early 
age  of  seven  he  had  read  nearly,  if  not  quite, 
all  of  Scott's  works ;  and  it  was  the  "Wizard 
of  the  North"  who  taught  him  the  love  of 
Gothic  architecture.  He  says : 

How  well  I  remember  as  a  boy  my  first  acquaint- 
ance with  a  room  hung  with  faded  greenery  at  Queen 
Elizabeth's  Lodge,  by  Chingford  Hatch,  in  Epping 
Forest,  and  the  impression  of  romance  it  made  upon 
me !  A  feeling  that  always  comes  back  to  me  when 
I  read,  as  I  often  do,  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Antiquary, 
and  come  to  the  description  of  the  green  room  at 
Monkbarns,  amongst  which  the  novelist  has  with 
such  exquisite  cunning  of  art  imbedded  the  fresh  and 
glittering  verses  of  the  summer  poet  Chaucer. 

Morris  was  educated  at  Marlborough  un- 
der clerical  masters,  against  whom,  he  re- 


54       LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

marks,  he  naturally  rebelled.  The  loose 
discipline  of  the  place  allowed  him  full 
scope  for  the  cultivation  of  his  individual 
tastes  and  pursuits.  He  was  not  more  than 
fourteen  years  of  age  when  the  first  general 
appearance  took  place,  before  the  public, 
of  the  Preraphaelites,  the  radical  doctrine 
of  whom  was  naturalism  as  distinguished 
from  realism.  But  the  time  was  not  yet 
ripe  for  Morris  to  come  under  their  influ- 
ence, nor  was  he  ever  formally  enrolled  in 
their  ranks.  Says  Aymer  Vallance : 

It  is,  therefore,  a  supreme  achievement  of  William 
Morris  to  have  brought  art,  through  the  medium  of 
the  handicrafts,  within  reach  of  thousands  who 
could  never  hope  to  obtain  but  a  transitory  view  of 
Preraphaelite  pictures  ;  his  distinction,  by  decorating 
the  less  pretending,  but  not  less  necessary,  articles  of 
household  furnishing,  to  have  done  more  than  any 
other  man  in  the  present  century  to  beautify  the 
plain,  everyday  home  life  of  the  people. 

On  the  second  of  June,  1852,  Morris 
matriculated  at  Exeter  College,  Oxford. 
This  was  an  event  of  first-rate  importance 
in  his  life.  Edward  Burne-Jones  matricu- 
lated on  the  same  day  at  the  same  college. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        55 

The  two  freshmen  were  drawn  together  by 
ties  of  sympathy  and  friendship  that  re- 
mained unbroken  until  the  day  of  Morris's 
death.  At  this  time  Morris  began  to  be 
conscious  of  the  poise  and  strength  of  his 
own  life,  and  to  become  intensely  interested 
in  the  origin  and  characteristics  of  mediaeval 
art.  Now,  also,  began  to  grow  up  within 
his  soul  that  uncompromising  protest 
against  the  vulgar  and  tasteless  commer- 
cialism ruling  the  present  century.  He  thus 
expresses  himself: 

It  is  a  grievous  thing  to  have  to  say,  but  say  it  I 
must,  that  the  one  most  beautiful  city  in  England, 
the  city  of  Oxford,  has  been  ravaged  for  many  years 
past,  not  only  by  ignorant  tradesmen,  but  by  the  uni- 
versity and  college  authorities.  Those  whose  special 
business  it  is  to  direct  the  culture  of  the  nation  have 
treated  the  beauty  of  Oxford  as  if  it  were  a  matter 
of  no  moment,  as  if  their  commercial  interests  might 
thrust  it  aside  without  consideration. 

While  still  an  undergraduate  at  Oxford  he 
"first  saw  the  city  of  Rouen,  then  still  in  its 
outward  aspect  a  piece  of  the  Middle  Ages : 
no  words  can  tell  you  how  its  mingled 
beauty,  history,  and  romance  took  hold  on 


56        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

me."  And  he  further  adds :  "I  can  only  say 
that,  looking  back  on  my  past  life,  I  find  it 
was  the  greatest  pleasure  I  have  ever  had; 
and  now  it  is  a  pleasure  which  no  one  can 
ever  have  again ;  it  is  lost  to  the  world  for- 
ever;" that  is,  because  of  the  injurious  and 
ignorant  restoration.  Morris  had  come  to 
Oxford  with  a  warm  admiration  for  the 
writings  of  Mrs.  Browning.  While  in  col- 
lege he  became  acquainted,  not  only  with 
the  works  of  Browning  and  Tennyson,  but 
also  with  certain  older  writers,  with  the 
Chronicles  of  Froissart,  and  with  a  book 
destined  to  exercise  a  far-reaching  influence 
upon  him  and  his  circle,  the  Morte  d' Arthur 
of  Sir  Thomas  Malory.  About  the  time  of 
Christmas,  1855,  Burne- Jones  relinquished 
his  intention  of  entering  the  ministry,  and 
proceeded  to  find  Rossetti  in  London  with 
the  purpose  of  becoming  his  pupil.  Ere 
long  he  presented  his  friend  Morris  to  his 
chosen  master,  whom  he  then  regarded  as 
the  greatest  man  in  Europe.  Without  wait- 
ing to  take  his  degree  Burne-Jones  began 
at  once  the  systematic  study  and  practice  of 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        57 

painting.  Morris,  on  the  contrary,  pre- 
ferred to  complete  his  university  course, 
which  he  did,  taking  his  degree  of  B.A.  in 
1856. 

The  first  step  in  William  Morris's  artistic 
career  was  when  he  articled  himself  to 
George  Edmund  Street,  then  located  in  the 
university  town  as  an  architect  to  the  dio- 
cese of  Oxford.  As  fundamental  to  all  art 
he  elected  an  architect's  training.  He  says 
of  this  pursuit: 

I  have  spoken  of  the  popular  arts,  but  they  might 
all  be  summed  up  in  that  one  word  "architecture ;" 
they  are  all  parts  of  that  great  whole,  and  the  art  of 
house-building  begins  it  all.  If  we  did  not  know 
how  to  dye  or  to  weave ;  if  we  had  neither  gold,  nor 
silver,  nor  silk,  and  no  pigments  to  paint  with,  but 
half  a  dozen  ochers  and  umbers,  we  might  yet  frame 
a  worthy  art  that  would  lead  to  everything,  if  we  had 
but  timber,  stone,  and  lime,  and  a  few  cunning 
tools  to  make  these  common  things  not  only  shelter 
us  from  wind  and  weather,  but  also  express  the 
thoughts  and  aspirations  that  stir  in  us.  Architec- 
ture would  lead  us  to  all  the  arts,  as  it  did  with 
earlier  men ;  but  if  we  despise  it  and  take  no  note  of 
how  we  are  housed,  the  other  arts  will  have  a  hard 
time  of  it  indeed. 

Morris  was  possessed  of  a  remarkable  fac- 


58        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

ulty  of  concentration,  being  able  to  wreak 
his  whole  soul  without  distraction  upon  the 
subject  in  hand,  so  that  he  mastered  easily 
and  quickly  the  things  learned  by  others 
with  difficulty  or  not  at  all.  In  1856  Mr. 
Morris  settled  in  lodgings  with  his  friend 
Burne- Jones,  at  17  Red  Lion  Square,  where 
they  shared  a  studio  in  common.  In  this 
same  year  appeared  The  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge Magazine,  which  continued  exactly 
twelve  months.  Among  such  contributors 
as  Vernon  Lushington,  Jex-Blake,  Burne- 
Jones,  and  D.  G.  Rossetti,  Morris  was  not 
the  least  figure,  being,  indeed,  the  largest 
contributor,  and  causing  his  friends  to 
prophesy  for  him  a  brilliant  future  in  the 
world  of  letters.  Rossetti  introduced  Mor- 
ris to  Ruskin  and  other  noted  artists  and 
literary  men.  Early  in  1857  Rossetti  thus 
writes  to  Bell  Scott : 

Two  young  men,  projectors  of  The  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  Magazine,  have  recently  come  to  town 
from  Oxford,  and  are  now  very  intimate  friends  of 
mine.  Their  names  are  Morris  and  Jones.  They 
have  turned  artists,  instead  of  taking  up  any  other 
career  to  which  the  university  generally  leads,  and 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        59 

both  are  men  of  real  genius.  Jones's  designs  are 
marvels  of  finish  and  imaginative  detail,  unequaled 
by  anything  unless,  perhaps,  Albert  Durer's  finest 
works ;  and  Morris,  though  without  practice  as  yet, 
has  no  less  power,  I  fancy.  He  has  written  some 
really  wonderful  poetry,  too. 

In  1858  Morris  published  his  first  volume 
of  poems,  The  Defense  of  Guinevere.  It 
was  a  remarkable  work  for  a  young  man 
twenty-four  years  of  age.  At  that  time  Ten- 
nyson's Idylls  of  the  King  had  not  yet  ap- 
peared; nor  had  the  published  poems  of 
Rossetti  been  other  than  a  few  occasional 
pieces  contributed  to  periodicals.  Mr.  Ar- 
thur Symons  writes  thus  of  Morris's  De- 
fense of  Guinevere:  "His  first  book — which 
invented  a  new  movement,  doing  easily, 
with  a  certain  appropriate  quaintness,  what 
Tennyson  all  his  life  had  been  trying  to  do 
— has  all  the  exquisite  trouble  of  his  first 
awakening  to  the  love  of  romance." 

Burne- Jones  delighted  to  portray  upon 
canvas  the  identical  subjects  which  Morris 
chose  for  his  poems;  these  breathe  a  me- 
diaeval atmosphere,  and  are  full  of  archaisms 
and  quaintnesses  which  might  easily  have 


60        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

declined  into  mannerisms  and  as  easily  lent 
themselves  to  parody.    To  illustrate : 

Across  the  empty  garden  beds, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

I  scarcely  saw  my  sisters'  heads 
Bowed  each  beside  a  tree. 

I  could  not  see  the  castle  leads, 
When  the  Sword  -went  out  to  sea. 

O,  russet  brown  and  scarlet  bright, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

My  sisters  v/ore  ;  I  wore  but  white  : 
Red,  brown,  and  white,  are  three ; 

Three  damozels ;  each  had  a  knight 
When  the  Sword  wsr.t  out  to  sea. 

A  golden  gilliflower  to-day 
I  wore  upon  my  helm  away, 
And  won  the  prize  of  this  tourney. 
Hah !  hah !  la  belle  jaune  gironee. 

No  one  goes  there  now : 

For  what  is  left  to  fetch  away 
From  the  desolate  battlements  all  arow, 

And  the  lead  roof  heavy  and  gray? 
"Therefore,"  said  fair  Yoland  of  the  flowers, 
"This  is  the  tune  of  Seven  Towers." 

There  was  a  lady  lived  in  a  hall, 
Large  in  the  eyes,  and  slim  and  tall ; 
And  ever  she  sung  from  noon  to  noon, 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        61 

Yet  The  Defense  of  Guinevere  was  a  no- 
table production,  and  lovers  of  true  poetry 
found  in  this  volume  much  to  impress  and 
delight  them.  Anent  the  poems  contained 
in  this  first  venture  Algernon  Charles  Swin- 
burne says: 

The  figures  here  given  have  the  blood  and  breath, 
the  shape  and  step,  of  life ;  they  can  move  and  suffer ; 
their  repentance  is  as  real  as  their  desire ;  their 
shame  lies  as  deep  as  their  love.  They  are  at  once 
remorseful  for  their  sin  and  regretful  of  the  pleasure 
that  is  past.  The  retrospective  vision  of  Lancelot 
and  Guinevere  is  as  passionate  and  profound  as  life. 
.  .  .  Such  verses  are  not  forgettable.  They  are  not, 
indeed — as  the  Idylls  of  the  King — the  work  of  a 
dextrous  craftsman  in  full  practice.  Little  beyond 
dexterity,  a  rare  eloquence,  and  a  laborious  patience 
of  hand  has  been  given  to  the  one  or  denied  to  the 
other.  These  are  good  gifts  and  great ;  but  it  is 
better  to  want  clothes  than  limbs. 

Despite  this  favorable  judgment  it  is  said 
that  the  general  reception  of  his  first  work 
was  so  discouraging  to  the  young  author 
that  he  had  little  heart  to  continue  writing, 
and  so  turned  his  hand  to  other  and  more 
grateful  occupations.  Not  until  repeated 
volumes  had  attracted  public  favor  did  a 


62        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

demand  arise  for  Morris's  earliest  volume, 
and  it  then  had  to  be  reprinted,  the  stock 
of  "the  original  impression  having  been  re- 
turned to  the  paper  mill." 

In  the  autumn  of  1857,  during  a  tempo- 
rary residence  at  Oxford,  William  Morris 
was  introduced  to  the  lady  who  afterward 
became  his  wife.  She  it  was  whose  features 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  delighted  to  portray 
upon  canvas,  and  whom  the  artist  has  im- 
mortalized in  numerous  drawings  and  paint- 
ings. The  marriage  rendered  it  necessary 
that  Morris  should  provide  a  suitable  home 
for  the  young  bride,  and  so  was  begun  the 
erection  of  the  "Red  House,"  a  structure 
after  the  bridegroom's  own  design,  and 
which  was  mainly  responsible  for  the  re- 
vival of  that  style  of  architecture  termed 
"Queen  Anne."  The  firm  of  "Morris  & 
Co.,  Decorators,"  is  closely  connected  with 
the  development  of  artistic  house  furnish- 
ings and  decorations  during  the  past  twenty 
years  and  more  in  England.  In  the  furnish- 
ing of  the  "Red  House,"  at  Bexley  Heath, 
Morris  had  exercised  his  ingenuity  in  em- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        63 

broidery  design,  in  ceiling  and  mural  orna- 
mentation, and  in  numerous  other  ways  had 
become  possessed  of  practical  experience  in 
various  branches  of  domestic  art.  It  is  re- 
corded that  neither  "love  nor  money  could 
procure  beautiful  objects  of  contemporary 
manufacture  for  any  purpose  of  household 
furnishing  or  adornment  when  William 
Morris  undertook  the  herculean  and  seem- 
ingly hopeless  task  of  decorative  reform  and 
wrought  and  brought  deliverance  from  the 
thraldom  of  the  ugly,  which  oppressed  all 
the  so-called  arts"  of  this  century.  That 
branch  of  the  ceramic  art  which  is  repre- 
sented by  the  decoration  of  tiles  owes  its 
rescue  from  vulgarity  and  degradation  to 
William  Morris.  "All  nations,  however 
barbarous,"  said  he  in  his  lecture  on  "The 
Lesser  Arts  of  Life,"  "have  made  pottery; 
but  none  have  ever  failed  to  make  it  on 
true  principles,  none  have  ever  made  shapes 
ugly  or  base  till  quite  modern  times.  .  .  . 
As  to  the  surface  decoration  on  pottery,  it 
is  clear  it  must  never  be  printed."  When, 
at  the  beginning  of  1862,  tiles  were  required 


64        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

for  the  "Red  House,"  there  were  no  hand- 
painted  tiles  in  England,  so  Morris  found 
it  necessary  to  begin  at  the  foundation. 
Plain  white  tiles  were  imported  from  Hol- 
land, and  after  various  experiments  with 
glazes  and  enamels  the  desired  results  were 
obtained. 

Of  the  many  industries  related  to  the 
skill  of  William  Morris  none  has  wider 
celebrity  than  that  of  wall  paper  hangings. 
It  was  he  who  lifted  this  branch  of  domes- 
tic ornamentation  above  the  level  of  a  mere 
crude  expedient  into  a  sphere  of  genuine 
art.  His  wall  paper  designs  were  models 
of  beauty  and  simplicity,  and  in  this  par- 
ticular field  he  was  little  short  of  a  creator. 
Two  or  three  years  after  the  establishment 
of  the  firm  of  "Morris,  Marshall,  Faulkner 
&  Co."  Morris  conceived  the  purpose  of 
adding  weaving  to  their  other  enterprises. 
Concerning  this  art  Morris  says : 

As  the  designing  of  woven  stuffs  fell  into  degra- 
dation in  the  latter  days,  the  designers  got  fidgeting 
after  trivial  novelties — change  for  the  sake  of 
change ;  they  must  needs  strive  to  make  their  woven 
flowers  look  as  if  they  were  painted  with  a  brush, 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        65 

or  even  sometimes  as  if  they  were  drawn  by  the  en- 
graver's burin.  This  gave  them  plenty  of  trouble 
and  exercised  their  ingenuity  in  the  tormenting  of 
their  web  with  spots  and  stripes  and  ribs  and  the  rest 
of  it,  but  quite  destroyed  the  seriousness  of  the  work 
and  even  its  raison  d'etre. 

It  is  averred  that  the  attention  of  Morris 
was  drawn  to  the  industry  of  weaving  by 
observing  a  man  in  the  street  selling  toy 
models  of  weaving  machines,  when  it  oc- 
curred to  him  to  purchase  one  and  practice 
upon  it  for  himself.  After  a  series  of  ex- 
periments he  endeavored  to  secure  a  full- 
size  old-style  hand  loom,  with  hand  shuttle, 
but  it  was  not  until  well  on  toward  the 
eighties  that  a  Jacquard  loom  was  erected 
in  Ormond  Yard,  when  Morris  was  enabled 
systematically  to  carry  on  weaving  as  a  part 
of  the  work  of  his  firm. 

About  1875  Morris  happened  to  need 
some  special  shades  of  silk  for  embroidery. 
Unable  to  procure  what  he  desired,  he  de- 
termined to  undertake  dyeing  on  his  own 
account.  Morris  began  by  dyeing  skeins  of 
silk  for  embroidery,  and  then  proceeded  to 
dye  wool  for  tapestry  and  carpets.  Morris 


66        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

was  strongly  of  the  opinion  that  certain  re- 
sults effected  by  chemical  sicence  had  proved 
extremely  injurious  to  the  art  of  dyeing. 
He  says : 

No  change  at  all  befell  the  art  either  in  the  East 
or  the  North  till  after  the  discovery  of  America ;  this 
gave  the  dyers  one  new  material  in  itself  good,  and 
one  that  was  doubtful  or  bad.  The  good  one  was 
the  new  insect  dye,  cochineal,  which  at  first  was  used 
only  for  dyeing  crimson.  .  .  .  The  bad  new  material 
was  logwood,  so  fugitive  a  dye  as  to  be  quite  worth- 
less as  a  color  by  itself  (as  it  was  first  used)  and  to 
my  mind  of  very  little  use  otherwise.  No  other 
new  dyestuff  of  importance  was  found  in  America, 
although  the  discoverers  came  across  such  abundance 
of  red-dyeing  wood  growing  there  that  a  huge  coun- 
try of  South  America  has  thence  taken  its  name  of 
"Brazil." 

Among  the  domestic  arts  taken  up  by  this 
versatile  man  were  printing  on  textile  fab- 
rics, embroidery,  dyeing,  carpet  and  arras 
weaving,  glass  painting,  and  cabinet  mak- 
ing. 

After  the  volume,  Defense  of  Guinevere, 
the  poems  of  Morris  dealt  no  more  with  the 
Arthurian  legends.  This  first  book  was  fol- 
lowed by  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason,  one 


V 

LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        67 

of  the  longest  narrative  poems  in  the  lan- 
guage. The  plot  of  the  story  differs  little 
from  the  classical  one,  though  the  setting 
and  elaboration  are  the  poet's  own.  "It  was 
all  more  or  less  exquisite,"  says  Mr.  Saints- 
bury,  "it  was  all  more  or  less  novel."  Here 
we  come  upon  such  rememberable  lines  as 

Dusk  grows  the  world,  and  day  is  weary-faced. 

The  slim-leaved,  thorny  pomegranate 
That  flung  its  unstrung  rubies  on  the  grass. 

Darksome  night  is  well-nigh  done, 
And  earth  is  waiting  silent  for  the  sun. 

And  so  began  short  love  and  long  decay, 
Sorrow  that  bides,  and  joy  that  fleets  away. 

And  one  hour 
Ripened  the  deadly  fruit  of  that  fell  flower. 

Concerning  this  book  Swinburne  says,  "In 
all  the  noble  roll  of  our  poets  there  has  been 
since  Chaucer  no  second  teller  of  tales,  no 
second  rhapsode  comparable  to  the  first,  till 
the  advent  of  this  one."  And  he  adds  to 
this  word  of  eulogy :  "No  higher  school  has 
brought  forth  rarer  poets  than  this.  .  .  . 


f 
68        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Here  is  a  poem  sown  of  itself,  sprung 
from  no  alien  seed,  cut  after  no  alien  model, 
fresh  as  wind,  bright  as  light,  full  of  the 
spring  and  the  sun." 

Ten  years  intervened  between  the  appear- 
ance of  The  Defense  of  Guinevere  and  the 
first  part  of  The  Earthly  Paradise.  The 
latter  work  reveals  a  complete  departure 
from  his  earlier  manner  and  methods.  It 
is  one  of  the  richest  and  sweetest  produc- 
tions in  any  language.  It  is  a  recital  of  old 
legends  and  traditions  from  many  sources, 
but  all  so  molded  and  interfused  with  the 
poet's  own  genius  and  personality  as  to  ren- 
der them  in  all  essential  respects  quite  origi- 
nal. The  prevailing  tone  of  the  work  is  one 
of  gentle  sadness  at  the  omnipresence  and 
inevitability  of  death,  but  there  is  nowhere 
anything  weak  or  maundering.  The  amaz- 
ing fecundity  of  the  poet  is  well  illustrated 
by  presenting  the  bare  titles  of  the  tales  con- 
tained in  The  Earthly  Paradise.  They  are 
as  follows:  "Atalanta's  Race,"  "The  Man 
Born  to  be  King,"  "The  Doom  of  King 
Acrisius,"  "The  Proud  King,"  "The  Story 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS       69 

of  Cupid  and  Psyche,"  "The  Writing  on 
the  Image,"  "The  Love  of  Alcestis,"  "The 
Lady  of  the  Land,"  "The  Son  of  Croesus," 
"The  Watching  of  the  Falcon,"  "Pygmalion 
and  the  Image,"  "Ogier  the  Dane,"  "The 
Death  of  Paris,"  "The  Land  East  of  the 
Sun  and  West  of  the  Moon,"  "The  Story  of 
Accontius  and  Cydippe,"  "The  Man  Who 
Never  Laughed  Again,"  "The  Story  of 
Rhodope,"  "The  Lovers  of  Gudrun,"  "The 
Golden  Apples,"  "The  Fostering  of  As- 
laug,"  "Bellerophon  at  Argos,"  "The  Ring 
Given  to  Venus,"  "Bellerophon  in  Lycia," 
"The  Hill  of  Venus."  It  is  almost  impos- 
sible to  adequately  represent  the  work  of 
Morris  by  any  selections  from  these  tales, 
so  interwoven  with  the  context  are  his  most 
beautiful  lines.  However,  here  is  a  song 
under  the  title  month  "July:" 

Fair  was  the  morn  to-day,  the  blossom's  scent 
Floated  across  the  fresh  grass,  and  the  bees 
With  low  vexed  song  from  rose  to  lily  went, 
A  gentle  wind  was  in  the  heavy  trees, 
And  thine  eyes  shone  with  joyous  memories; 
Fair  was  the  early  morn,  and  fair  wert  thou, 
And  I  was  happy — Ah,  be  happy  now ! 


70        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Peace  and  content  without  us,  love  within, 
That  hour  there  was,  now  thunder  and  wild  rain 
Have  wrapped  the  cowering  world,  and  foolish  sin 
And  nameless  pride  have  made  us  wise  in  vain ; 
Ah,  love !  although  the  morn  shall  come  again, 
And  on  new  rosebuds  the  new  sun  shall  smile, 
Can  we  regain  what  we  have  lost  meanwhile  ? 

E'en  now  the  west  grows  clear  of  storm  and  threat, 

But  midst  the  lightning  did  the  fair  sun  die — 

Ah !  he  shall  rise  again  for  ages  yet, 

He  cannot  waste  his  life — but  thou  and  I — 

Who  knows  if  next  morn  this  felicity 

My  lips  may  feel,  or  if  thou  still  shalt  live 

This  seal  of  love  renewed  once  more  to  give  ? 

The  poet's  skill  in  portraying  scenes  of 
nature  is  well  indicated  by  these  lines  from 
"Pygmalion  and  the  Image:" 

Fair  was  the  day,  the  honeyed  beanfield's  scent 
The  west  wind  bore  unto  him ;  o'er  the  way 
The  glittering  noisy  poplar  leaves  did  play. 

All  things  were  moving ;  as  his  hurried  feet 

Passed  by,  within  the  flowery  swath  he  heard 

The  sweeping  of  the  scythe,  the  swallow  fleet 

Rose  over  him,  the  sitting  partridge  stirred 

On  the  field's  edge  ;  the  brown  bee  by  him  whirred, 

Or  murmured  in  the  clover  flowers  below, 

But  he  with  bowed-down  head  failed  not  to  go. 

Mr.  John  Morley  has  written  thus  of  the 
poetical  art  of  William  Morris: 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        71 

Mr.  Morris's  central  quality  is  a  vigorous  and 
healthy  objectivity ;  people  who  talk  conventional 
cant  talk  about  word-painting  should  turn  to  a  page 
of  Jason  or  The  Earthly  Paradise  and  watch  how  the 
most  delicious  pictures  are  produced  by  the  simplest 
and  directest  means.  Mr.  Morris's  descriptions,  con- 
densed, simple,  absolutely  free  from  all  that  is 
strained  and  all  that  is  artificial,  enter  the  reader's 
mind  with  the  direct  and  vivid  force  of  impressions 
coming  straight  from  the  painter's  canvas.  There  is 
no  English  poet  of  this  time,  nor  perhaps  of  any 
other,  who  has  possessed  this  excellent  gift  of  look- 
ing freshly  and  simply  on  eternal  nature  in  all  her 
many  colors,  and  of  reproducing  what  he  sees  with 
such  effective  precision  and  truthfulness. 

The  following  lines  from  "Love  is  Enough" 
emphasize  at  least  a  part  of  what  Mr.  Mor- 
ley  has  so  finely  said : 

And  what  do  ye  say  then  ?  that  spring  long  departed 
Has  brought  forth  no  child  to  the  softness  and  show- 
ers; 
That  we  slept  and  we  dreamed  through  the  summer 

of  flowers ; 

We  dreamed  of  the  winter,  and  waking  dead-hearted 
Found  winter  upon  us  and  waste  of  dull  hours. 

In  the  year  1871  William  Morris  and  D. 
G.  Rossetti  entered  into  the  joint  occupa- 
tion of  Kelmscott  Manor,  a  name  which  for 
five  and  twenty  years  thereafter  was  asso- 


72        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

dated  with  some  of  Morris's  most  remark- 
able work.  Prior  to  this  time  Morris  had 
become  an  enthusiastic  student  of  Icelandic 
literature,  his  studies  in  this  field  resulting 
in  the  translation  of  The  Saga  of  Gunnlaug 
the  Worm-tongue  and  Rafn  the  Skald,  a 
volume  entitled  The  Story  of  Grettir  the 
Strong,  and  the  Volsung  Saga.  Of  this 
latter  work  Buxton  Forman  says:  "Here 
the  reader  will  find  sentiment  enough  and 
romance  enough — flashes  of  a  weird  mag- 
nificence that  all  the  hills  of  the  Land  of  Ice 
have  not  been  able  to  overreach  with  their 
long  dusk  shadows,  and  that  all  the  'cold 
gray  sea'  that  rings  the  Island  of  Thule  has 
not  washed  free  of  its  color  and  heat." 
"The  Story  of  Frithiof  the  Bold,"  "The 
Story  of  Viglund  the  Fair,"  "The  Tale  of 
Hogni  and  Hedinn,"  "The  Tale  of  Roi  the 
Fool,"  "The  Tale  of  Thorstein  Staffsmit- 
ten,"  "The  Story  of  Howard  the  Halt," 
"The  Story  of  the  Banded  Men,"  "The 
Story  of  Hen  Thorir,"  "The  Story  of  the 
Ere  Dwellers,"  and  "The  Story  of  the 
Heath  Slayings"  followed.  That  many  of 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        73 

these  works  were  in  collaboration  with  Mr. 
Eirikr  Magnusson  does  not  detract  from  the 
immense  industry  and  fertility  of  Morris. 
His  translations,  The  Aeneid  of  Virgil  and 
The  Odyssey  of  Homer,  must  also  be  re- 
garded as  triumphs  of  literary  workmanship. 
In  1877  Morris  published  his  colossal 
work,  The  Story  of  Sigurd  the  Volsimg, 
and  the  Fall  of  the  Niblungs.  This  extend- 
ed poem  is  written  in  anapestic  rhyming 
couplets.  The  following  quotation  will  con- 
vey but  a  slight  impression  of  this  noble 
and  splendid  poem: 

All  hail,  O  Day  and  thy  Sons,  and  thy  kin  of  the 

colored  things ! 
Hail,  following  Night  and  thy  Daughter  that  leadeth 

thy  wavering  wings ! 

Look  down  with  unangry  eyes  on  us  to-day  alive, 
And  give  us  the  hearts  victorious,  and  the  gain  for 

which  we  strive ! 
All  hail,  ye  lords  of  God-home,  and  Queens  of  the 

House  of  Gold ! 
Hail,  thoti  dear  earth  that  bearest,  and  thou  Wealth 

of  field  and  fold ! 
Give  us,  your  noble  children,  the  glory  of  wisdom 

and  speech, 
And  the  hearts  and  the  hands  of  healing,  and  the 

mouths  and  the  hands  that  teach ! 


74        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

In  1891  appeared  Poems  by  the  Way,  a 
collection  of  the  poet's  fugitive  verse.  Dur- 
ing the  last  eight  years  of  his  life,  that  is, 
from  1888  to  1896,  Morris  produced  little 
poetry.  But  during  this  interval  he  was 
intensely  alive  to  the  world  of  humankind 
and  to  the  great  questions  which  are  every- 
where clamoring  for  solution.  He  seemed 
to  feel  that  there  could  be  nothing  in  com- 
mon between  modern  social  conditions  and 
the  spirit  of  poesy. 

Morris's  revolt  against  so  much  that  is 
unlovely  and  grossly  utilitarian  in  our  pres- 
ent "unexampled  progress"  is  revealed  in 
the  following  lines  from  The  Earthly  Para- 
dise : 

Forget  six  counties  overhung  with  smoke, 
Forget  the  snorting  steam  and  piston  stroke, 
Forget  the  spreading  of  the  hideous  town ; 
Think  rather  of  the  pack-horse  on  the  down, 
And  dream  of  London,  small,  and  white,  and  clean, 
The  clear  Thames  bordered  by  its  gardens  green. 

The  root  of  Morris's  socialism  is  to  be 
found  in  the  "terrible  contrast  presented  by 
the  life  of  the  workmen  of  the  past  and  the 
life  of  the  workmen  of  to-day ;"  hence  "the 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        75 

more  profound  grew  his  sense  of  dissatis- 
faction with  the  present  conditions  of  so- 
ciety." His  yearning  for  the  better  time 
was  thus  expressed: 

Ah !  good  and  ill, 

When  will  your  strife  the  fated  measure  fill  ? 
When  will  the  tangled  veil  be  drawn  away 
To  show  us  all  that  unimagined  day? 

The  poet  was  constantly  moved  by  his 
overmastering  devotion  to  art  and  his  clear 
perception  that,  if  labor  and  art  are  again 
to  go  hand  in  hand,  man  must  love  his  la- 
bor; he  saw,  further,  that  in  the  midst  of 
modern  social  conditions  man  will  not  and 
cannot  love  his  work.  The  distinct  propo- 
sition which  Morris  formulated  was  this: 
"It  is  right  and  necessary  that  all  men 
should  have  work  to  do  which  shall  be 
worth  doing,  and  be  of  itself  pleasant  to 
do,  and  which  should  be  done  under  such 
conditions  as  would  make  it  neither  over- 
wearisome  nor  overanxious."  He  says 
again : 

What  I  mean  by  socialism  is  a  condition  of  society 
in  which  there  should  be  neither  rich  nor  poor, 


76        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

neither  master  nor  master's  man,  neither  idle  nor 
overworked,  neither  brain-sick  brain  workers  nor 
heart-sick  hand  workers — in  a  word,  in  which  all 
men  would  be  living  in  equality  of  condition,  and 
would  manage  their  affairs  unwastefully,  and  with 
the  full  consciousness  that  harm  to  one  would  mean 
harm  to  all — the  realization  at  last  of  the  meaning  of 
the  word  "Commonwealth." 

In  further  explanation  of  his  position  he 
said  that  he  was  compelled 

Once  to  hope  that  the  ugly  disgraces  of  civilization 
might  be  got  rid  of  by  the  conscious  will  of  intelli- 
gent persons ;  yet,  as  I  strove  to  stir  up  people  to 
this  reform,  I  found  that  the  vulgarities  of  civiliza- 
tion lay  deeper  than  I  had  thought,  and  little  by  lit- 
tle I  was  driven  to  the  conclusion  that  all  these 
uglinesses  are  but  the  outward  expression  of  the  in- 
nate moral  baseness  into  which  we  are  forced  by  our 
present  form  of  society,  and  that  it  is  futile  to  at- 
tempt to  deal  with  them  from  the  outside. 

The  unhappy  condition  of  the  modern 
workingman,  as  compared  with  the  work- 
ingman  of  the  past,  was  a  theme  to  which 
Morris  returned  again  and  again.  He  says : 

Now,  they  work  consciously  for  a  livelihood  and 
blindly  for  a  mere  abstraction  of  a  world-market 
which  they  do  not  know  of,  but  with  no  thought  of 
the  work  passing  through  their  hands.  Then,  they 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        77 

worked  to  produce  wares  and  to  earn  their  liveli- 
hood by  means  of  them ;  and  their  only  market  they 
had  close  at  hand,  and  they  knew  it  well.  Now,  the 
result  of  their  work  passes  through  the  hands  of  half 
a  dozen  middlemen.  Then,  they  worked  directly  for 
their  neighbors,  understanding  their  wants,  and  with 
no  one  coming  between  them.  Huckstering  which 
was  then  illegal,  has  now  become  the  main  business 
of  life,  and  of  course  those  who  practice  it  most  suc- 
cessfully are  better  rewarded  than  anyone  else  in  the 
community.  Now,  people  work  under  the  direction 
of  an  absolute  master  whose  power  is  restrained  by 
a  trade's  union,  in  absolute  hostility  to  that  master. 
Then,  they  worked  under  the  direction  of  their  own 
collective  wills  by  means  of  trade  guilds.  Now,  the 
factory  hand,  the  townsman  is  a  different  animal 
from  the  countryman.  Then,  every  man  was  inter- 
ested in  agriculture,  and  lived  with  the  green  fields 
coming  close  to  his  own  doors.  In  short,  the  differ- 
ence between  the  two  may  be  told  very  much  in  these 
words :  "In  those  days  daily  life  as  a  whole  was 
pleasant,  although  its  accidents  might  be  rough  and 
tragic.  Now,  daily  life  is  dreary,  stupid,  wooden, 
and  the  only  pleasure  is  in  excitement,  even  if  that 
pleasure  should  be  more  or  less  painful  or  terrible." 

In  his  Utopian  romance,  News  from  No- 
where, Morris  presents  us  with  a  condition 
of  human  society  in  which  there  are  no  laws 
nor  lawyers,  no  judges,  no  government. 
He  aims  at  escaping  wholly  from  the  com- 


78        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

plex  relations  of  modern  life,  and  seeks  to 
enter  into  a  state  of  primal,  untrammeled 
simplicity.  According  to  Mr.  Lionel  John- 
son, he  shows  a  "loving  and  personal  regard 
for  the  very  earth  itself,  .  .  .  that  sense  of 
the  motherhood  of  the  earth  which  makes  a 
man  love  the  smell  of  the  fields  after  rain, 
or  the  look  of  running  water."  The  leading 
thoughts  which  the  author  seeks  to  impress 
upon  the  reader  are  that  "pleasure  in  work 
is  the  secret  of  art  and  content,"  and  that 
"delight  in  physical  life  upon  the  earth  is 
the  natural  state  of  man." 

The  year  1888  saw  the  beginning  of  that 
cycle  of  prose  romances  upon  which  Morris 
continued  to  work  until  the  end  of  his  life. 
A  Tale  of  the  House  of  the  Wolnngs  ap- 
peared in  December,  1888.  In  1890  was 
published  The  Roots  of  the  Mountains.  In 
this  year,  also,  The  Story  of  the  Glittering 
Plain  was  printed  as  a  serial  in  Macmillan's 
English  Illustrated  Magazine.  Then  fol- 
lowed News  from  Nowhere,  which  in  turn 
was  followed  by  The  Wood  Beyond  the. 
World.  In  1895  appeared  the  volume  en- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        79 

titled  Of  Child  Christopher  and  Goldilind 
the  Fair,  which  was  succeeded,  in  1896,  by 
The  Well  at  the  World's  End,  the  last  work 
which  Mr.  Morris  published  before  his 
death.  The  Water  of  the  Wondrous  Isles 
and  The  Sundering  Flood  are  posthumous 
works,  in  character  not  unlike  their  prede- 
cessors. 

Morris  took  up  the  work  of  printing  and 
book  decoration  in  the  same  spirit  in  which 
he  engaged  in  other  arts.  All  the  volumes 
which  have  come  from  the  Kelmscott  press 
are  models  of  beauty  and  design,  and  show 
a  return  to  the  earlier  styles  of  printing 
and  binding  when  thought  and  individu- 
ality went  into  the  making  of  each  book. 
Superadded  to  this  is  an  originality  of  de- 
tail and  execution  which  set  the  Kelmscott 
publications  quite  apart  from  the  usual  mod- 
ern products  of  the  press. 

In  the  month  of  February,  1896,  Morris's 
health  gave  way,  and  his  friends  began  to 
entertain  for  him  serious  alarm.  Afterward 
he  seemed  to  rally  a  little.  But  on  the  third 
of  October,  1896,  the  end  came,  and  he  tran- 


8o        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

quilly  passed  away  at  Kelmscott  House, 
Hammersmith.  The  funeral  was  unosten- 
tatious, as  he  would  have  desired.  At  Lech- 
lade  station  the  remains  were  placed  on  a 
harvest  cart,  instead  of  a  hearse.  The  body 
of  this  cart  was  painted  yellow,  the  wheels 
red,  and  the  framework  had  been  festooned 
with  vines,  willow  branches,  flowers,  and 
berries.  "The  roan  mare  in  the  shafts  had 
vine  leaves  in  its  blinkers,  and  strings  of 
vines  were  festooned  across  the  top  of  the 
wain.  The  bottom  of  the  cart  was  lined 
with  moss/'  Thus  the  body  of  William 
Morris  was  conveyed  to  the  churchyard  of 
his  beloved  Kelmscott.  The  grave  lies  shad- 
owed by  tall  trees  and  buried  in  long  grass, 
close  to  the  wall  of  the  little  churchyard 
where  it  is  skirted  by  the  country  road — a 
remote  and  quiet  resting  place  for  one  who, 
throughout  his  busy  and  strenuous  days, 
dreamed  of  that  happy  bourne  "where  be- 
yond these  voices  there  is  peace." 

Says  a  certain  writer  of  the  benefits  which 
resulted  for  the  age  from  his  artistic 
service : 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        81 

His  whole  life  was  a  vivid  and  in  many  respects  a 
successful  protest  against  the  squalor  of  modern  in- 
dustrialism. To  him,  more  than  to  any  other  man, 
we  owe  our  emancipation  from  the  hideous  vulgarity 
of  middle- Victorian  house  decoration  and  upholstery. 
Others  preached,  but  William  Morris,  in  whom  a 
keen  artistic  sense  was  happily  allied  to  skilled 
workmanship,  was  able  to  supplement  precept  by 
practice  and  visibly  demonstrate  the  superiority  of 
his  methods.  .  .  .  He  warred  with  brilliant  success 
against  the  tyranny  of  ugliness  .  .  .  surely  no 
mean  achievement  in  a  mechanical  and  utilitarian 
age. 


Ill 

JOHN  KEATS 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        85 


III 

JOHN   KEATS 

No  other  name,  perhaps,  in  the  entire 
range  of  English  literature  is  so  significant 
of  precocious  genius,  vivid  and  beautiful 
imagination,  and  unexampled  word-paint- 
ing. That  a  man  dying  in  the  twenty-sixth 
year  of  his  age,  after  a  comparatively  brief 
season  of  literary  activity,  should  leave  be- 
hind him  such  an  artistic  and  satisfying 
body  of  verse,  is  sufficiently  remarkable; 
but  when  the  fact  is  also  noted  that  this 
young  writer  was  the  founder  of  a  new 
school  in  the  art  of  poetry — a  school  which 
to-day  is  most  popular  and  flourishing — the 
circumstance  becomes  historical  in  its  value. 
Despite  his  limited  career,  so  rapid  was  the 
maturity  of  his  intellectual  energies  that  the 
works  which  John  Keats  has  left  to  the 
world  will  continue  to  be  read,  wherever 
the  English  language  is  spoken,  with  re- 
newed astonishment  and  delight. 


86        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS^. 

Not  infrequently,  in  these  passing  days, 
sundry  defenses  of  poetry  are  written  for 
the  encouragement  of  the  faithful.  It  is 
ominous  that  poetry  should  at  any  time  be 
regarded  as  needing  defense ;  for  if  it  bears 
not  within  itself  its  own  justification,  if  it 
no  longer  makes  an  appeal  to  the  heart  of 
man,  then  should  the  discredited  bard  hang 
his  harp  upon  the  willows  and  possess  his 
soul  in  silence.  But  who  will  venture  to 
affirm  that  poetry  has  lost  its  power  to  stir 
the  human  heart,  when  such  a  poet  as  Keats 
owns  an  ever-widening  circle  of  apprecia- 
tive readers  among  the  finest  spirits  of  the 
world  ? 

To  read  the  poems  of  Keats  is  not  unlike 
indulging  in  a  draught  of  rare  old  vintage ; 
he  makes  his  reader  drunk  with  music;  he 
fairly  intoxicates  with  the  richness  of  his 
song.  It  is  impossible  steadfastly  to  peruse 
such  poetry ;  it  cloys  with  too  much  melody. 
His  finest  verses  are  exquisitely  sweet  and 
tender,  and  possess  a  native  birdlike  quality 
that  goes  straight  to  the  heart.  Keats  lived 
in  a  world  of  the  past.  He  moved  amid  a 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        87 

troop  of  fantastic  shadows  half  human,  half 
divine,  god  and  goddess,  faun  and  satyr, 
nymph  and  hamadryad,  until  to  him  the  un- 
real became  the  real,  and  "the  thing  that 
was  not  as  the  thing  that  was."  He  was 
bewildered  in  the  mazes  of  his  own  imagin- 
ings ;  there  he  ranged  like  an  uncurbed 
steed;  yet  nothing  passed  from  under  his 
hand  that  did  not  bear  the  magic  impress 
which  sealed  it  "a  joy  forever."  It  was  a 
favorite  idea  of  Goethe  that  what  once  has 
gladdened  us  can  never  afterward  be  wholly 
lost  out  of  our  life ;  so  the  spirit  of  beauty, 
unconsciously  imbibed  by  Keats,  grew  with 
his  growth,until  it  found  expression  in  other 
beauty,  and  "blossomed  in  delight." 

His  history  is  a  melancholy  one,  and  as  a 
victim  of  literary  assassination  through  po- 
litical and  personal  malice  it  is  small  won- 
der that  he  was  spoken  of  in  his  own  day 
as  "poor  Keats."  That  the  poet  was  un- 
favorably affected  by  the  virulent  attacks 
which  were  made  upon  his  verse  has  been 
denied,  as  impeaching  the  robustness  of  his 
character.  Yet  it  can  scarcely  be  doubted 


88        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

that  such  was  the  mental  and  physical  con- 
dition of  the  poet  that  the  germs  of  disease, 
already  latent  in  his  constitution,  were  rap- 
idly developed  into  activity  by  the  suffering 
and  disappointment  he  must  have  experi- 
enced through  the  injustice  done  to  his 
work,  as  well  as  through  his  unhappy  love. 
Shelley  believed  that  this  was  so,  and  he  cer- 
tainly could  not  have  been  ignorant  of  the 
facts  in  the  case.  Taking  place  in  litera- 
ture beside  those  earlier  and  incomparable 
masters  of  song,  Chaucer  and  Spenser, 
Keats  in  some  respects  seems  as  remote 
from  the  present  time  as  they ;  yet  it  is  little 
more  than  an  old  man's  lifetime  since,  an 
awkward,  bashful  youth,  he  sought  the  en- 
trance to  Hazlitt's  lecture  room  or  made  his 
memorable  journey  to  Scotland,  Devon- 
shire, and  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

Of  humble  parentage,  John  Keats  first 
saw  the  light  of  the  natural  day  in  London, 
October  29,  or  31  (it  is  not  determined 
which),  1795,  at  the  house  of  his  grand- 
father, who  kept  a  large  livery  stable  on 
the  Pavement  in  Moorfields.  The  boy's 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        89 

health  was  always  fragile,  for  he  had  been 
a  seven-months'  child,  and  his  birth  is  said 
to  have  been  prematurely  hastened  by  his 
mother's  intense  love  of  pleasure,  though 
in  his  earlier  years  his  constitution  present- 
ed but  little  indication  of  the  peculiar  de- 
bility attendant  upon  such  cases.  He  was 
one  of  five  children,  Edward  dying  in  in- 
fancy, and  during  his  boyhood,  which  was 
spent  at  a  good,  second-class  school,  seems 
to  have  been  notable  chiefly  for  his  warm 
attachment  to  fistic  encounters.  He  pos- 
sessed, however,  an  extreme  facility  in  get- 
ting through  the  daily  tasks  of  school,  which 
seemed  to  make  no  great  demand  upon  his 
attention,  yet  in  which  he  never  lagged 
behind  the  others.  His  easy  skill  in  all 
manly  exercises,  and  the  complete  ingenu- 
ousness of  his  disposition,  rendered  him  very 
popular. 

After  remaining  some  time  at  school  his 
intellectual  ambition  seemed  suddenly  to  de- 
velop. He  had  been  a  leader  in  athletic 
sports;  he  now  determined  to  capture  the 
first  prize  in  literature,  and  in  this  he  was 


90        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

successful.  The  son  of  his  tutor,  a  Mr. 
Clarke,  of  Enfield,  discovered  and  encour- 
aged the  poetical  faculty  in  the  young  poet, 
whom  he  introduced  to  Leigh  Hunt.  Hunt 
was  ever  after  the  warm  friend  of  Keats, 
whom  the  elder  poet  undoubtedly  brought 
to  the  notice  of  the  public.  Indeed,  Hunt 
was  to  Keats  what  Schiller  was  to  Korner. 
Our  poet  left  school  "with  little  Latin  and 
less  Greek."  The  twelve  books  of  the 
"^Eneid"  probably  constituted  the  limits  of 
his  Latin  excursions.  His  acquaintance 
with  the  Greek  mythology,  which  he  after- 
ward employed  to  such  splendid  purpose, 
was  derived  mainly  from  Lempriere's  Dic- 
tionary, a  volume  which  has  not  yet  been 
superseded  by  some  modern  works  of  a 
more  pretentious  kind.  The  parents  of 
Keats  both  died  while  he  was  young.  His 
portion  of  the  property  left  by  them  amount- 
ed to  nearly  two  thousand  pounds.  It  would 
seem  that  this  should  have  sufficed  to  pre- 
serve the  poet  from  financial  difficulties  for 
some  time ;  yet  we  learn  of  his  having  been 
obliged  to  secure  pecuniary  aid  almost  im- 


rLOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        91 

mediately  after  attaining  his  majority.  But 
it  ought  to  be  noted  here  that  Keats  was 
of  a  generous  nature,  and  his  purse  was 
ever  open  to  his  friends,  some  of  whom  did 
not  scruple  to  avail  themselves  of  his  free- 
handedness. 

Just  after  leaving  school,  without  his 
wishes  having  been  consulted  in  the  matter, 
he  was  apprenticed  by  his  guardian  to  a 
surgeon  at  Edmonton,  where  Mr.  Cowden 
Clark  became  his  neighbor  and  friend.  Mr. 
Clark  introduced  him  to  the  poet,  Hon. 
William  Robert  Spencer,  whose  writings 
at  once  exerted  a  most  powerful  and  last- 
ing effect  on  the  plastic  mind  of  the  younger 
man.  Chaucer  was  his  next  passion,  and 
for  a  brief  period  he  seems  to  have  taken 
not  a  little  pleasure  in  the  stormy  and  lurid 
lines  of  Lord  Byron.  But  Edmund  Spen- 
ser opened  to  Keats  a  new  poetic  world,  and 
he  went  racing  through  "The  Faerie 
Queene"  like  a  colt  newly  turned  to  pasture. 
Indeed,  an  early — if  not  quite  the  earliest 
—attempt  of  Keats  at  verse-making  was  an 
imitation  of  Spenser  in  the  peculiar  stanzaic 


92        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

form  which  was  the  invention  of  the  latter 
poet,  and  to  which  his  name  has  been  given. 
In  1817  Keats,  having  just  then  come  of 
age,  published  his  first  volume  of  poems, 
which  exhibited  unmistakable  signs  of 
promise  and,  to  the  unprejudiced  reader, 
some  actual  performance.  His  most  valu- 
able acquisition  in  consequence  of  this  ven- 
ture was  the  acquaintance  and  friendship 
of  Shelley,  Haydon,  Godwin,  Basil  Mon- 
tagu, Hazlitt,  and  a  few  others  of  literary 
reputation  and  eminence.  His  political 
views  were  manly  and  independent,  and 
Leigh  Hunt  was  known  to  be  his  friend. 
These  were  sins  which  never  could  be  for- 
given by  the  Quarterly  Review.  In  that 
partisan  publication  literary  judgment  and 
preferment  were  invariably  meted  out  ac- 
cording to  political  congeniality  of  senti- 
ments. Its  writers  were  both  servile  and 
scurrilous,  and  with  them  a  new  author  like 
Keats  was  but  a  foil  for  their  bigotry  and 
literary  charlatanism.  He  was  comparative- 
ly friendless  and  unknown,  and  even  had 
he  appealed  to  the  public  he  could  hardly 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        93 

have  attracted  notice,  since  he  was  yet  but 
an  obscure  maker  of  verses  not  at  all  in  the 
prevailing  vogue.  Hence,  Gifford,  the  edi- 
tor of  the  Quarterly,  vented  his  spleen  upon 
his  inoffensive  victim,  conscious  of  immuni- 
ty amid  it  all,  since  the  object  of  his  attack 
could  no  more  than  turn  upon  him  as  the 
worm  turns  beneath  the  foot  that  crushes 
it.  A  scion  of  the  nobility,  infected  with 
cacoethes  scribendi,  might  have  scribbled 
the  veriest  nonsense  and  been  certain  of 
flattery  and  applause;  but  a  singular 
genius,  brilliant  as  singular,  springing  up 
of  its  own  vitality  in  an  out-of-the-way 
corner,  was  by  all  means  to  be  extinguished. 
Gifford  had  formerly  been  a  cobbler,  and 
the  son  of  the  livery  stable  keeper  was  not 
worthy  his  critical  sufferance.  Thus  it  is 
ever  with  those  narrow-minded  persons 
who,  by  the  power  or  caprice  of  accident, 
rise  from  a  vulgar  obscurity  into  the  public 
view;  they  never  can  tolerate  a  brother  in 
good  fortune,  much  less  superior  force  or 
talents  in  that  brother. 
On  the  publication  of  Keats's  next  work, 
7 


94        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

"Endymion,"  Gifford  attacked  it  with  all 
the  bitterness  of  which  his  pen  was  capable, 
and  did  not  hesitate,  before  he  saw  the 
poem,  to  announce  to  the  publisher  his  fell 
intention.  Keats  had  endeavored,  as  much 
as  was  consistent  with  honesty  and  inde- 
pendence, to  conciliate  the  critics  at  large, 
as  may  be  observed  in  the  brief  preface  to 
"Endymion."  It  seems  almost  incredible, 
at  the  present  stage  of  literary  progress, 
that  such  a  swashbuckling  style  of  criti- 
cism as  that  indulged  in  by  Blackwood's 
and  the  Quarterly  Review  should  have 
passed  current  with  any  respectable  portion 
of  an  enlightened  public ;  and  to  their  credit 
be  it  said  that  here  and  there  generous 
voices  were  raised,  the  kindly  utterances  of 
which  must  have  been  as  balm  to  the  hurts 
of  the  young  poet's  soul.  He  merited  to  be 
treated  with  lenity,  not  wounded  with  the 
envenomed  shafts  of  political  animosity  for 
errors  of  literary  taste  which  time  was  cer- 
tain to  correct.  Of  intense  sentitiveness, 
and  his  frame  already  touched  by  a  mortal 
distemper,  he  felt  that  his  hopes  were 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        95 

blighted  and  his  attempts  to  obtain  honora- 
ble public  notice  frustrated.  Some  years 
ago  an  article  appeared  in  the  North  British 
Review  in  which  the  writer  sought  to  prove 
that  the  critiques  in  the  Quarterly  had  ex- 
erted no  influence  whatever  in  inducing  the 
fatal  disease  by  which  Keats's  earthly  ca- 
reer was  so  early  terminated.  In  more  re- 
cent articles  from  various  pens,  celebrating 
the  centennial  of  the  birth  of  Keats,  the 
same  views  have  been  advanced.  But 
Chambers,  alluding  to  the  "Endymion," 
says: 

The  poem  was  criticised  in  a  strain  of  contemp- 
tuous severity  by  the  Quarterly  Review;  and  such 
was  the  sensitiveness  of  the  young  poet  panting  for 
distinction,  and  flattered  by  a  few  private  friends, 
that  the  critique  embittered  his  existence  and  in- 
duced a  fatal  disease. 

And  this  is  the  testimony  of  Shelley  in  the 
days  long  before  the  present  log-rolling  set 
of  London  would  have  rendered  such  wit- 
ness unnecessary,  if  not  impossible: 

The  first  effects  are  described  to  me  to  have  re- 
sembled insanity,  and  it  was  by  assiduous  watching 
that  he  was  restrained  from  effecting  purposes  of 


96        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

suicide.  The  agony  of  his  sufferings  at  length  pro- 
duced the  rupture  of  a  blood  vessel  in  the  lungs,  and 
the  usual  process  of  consumption  appears  to  have 
begun. 

Shelley's  fearful  arraignment  of  Gifford 
in  the  prefatory  note  to  "Adonais"  lends 
additional  emphasis  to  the  foregoing  words. 
Lord  Byron,  alluding  to  Keats  in  the 
eleventh  canto  of  "Don  Juan,"  says : 

Poor  fellow !  his  was  an  untoward  fate : 
'Tis  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle, 
Should  let  itself  be  snuff  d  out  by  an  article. 

Keats's  book  abounded  with  passages  of 
rarest  beauty  and  truest  poetry,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  decide  whether  the  cowardice  or 
the  cruelty  of  the  attack  most  deserves  ex- 
ecration. The  following  lines,  taken  from 
the  poem  almost  at  random,  represent  En- 
dymion  as  wandering  in  semi-madness 
through  the  underworld,  and  there  coming 
unexpectedly  upon  the  sleeping  Adonis: 

After  a  thousand  mazes  overgone, 
At  last,  with  sudden  step,  he  came  upon 
A  chamber,  myrtle- walled,  embower'd  high, 
Full  of  light,  incense,  tender  minstrelsy, 
And  more  of  beautiful  and  strange  beside : 
For  on  a  silken  couch  of  rosy  pride, 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        97 

In  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 

Of  fondest  beauty ;  fonder,  in  fair  sooth, 

Than  sighs  could  fathom,  or  contentment  reach ; 

And  coverlids  gold-tinted  like  the  peach, 

Or  ripe  October's  faded  marigolds, 

Fell  sleek  about  him  in  a  thousand  folds — 

Not  hiding  up  an  Apollonian  curve 

Of  neck  and  shoulder,  nor  the  tenting  swerve 

Of  knee  from  knee,  nor  ankles  pointing  light ; 

But  rather  giving  them  to  the  fill'd  sight 

Officiously.     Sideway  his  face  reposed 

On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclosed, 

By  tenderest  pressure,  a  faint  damask  mouth 

To  slumbering  pout ;  just  as  the  morning  south 

Disparts  a  dew-lipp'd  rose.  .  .  .  Hard  by 

Stood  serene  cupids  watching  silently. 

One,  kneeling  to  a  lyre,  touched  the  strings, 

Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings, 

And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 

At  the  youth's  slumber ;  while  another  took 

A  willow  bough,  distilling  odorous  dew, 

And  shook  it  on  his  hair ;  another  flew 

In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  fluttering-wise 

Rain'd  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes. 

The  following  stanzas  from  "The  Eve  of 
St.  Agnes"  are  distinctly  in  advance  of  the 
previous  quotation,  both  in  manner  and 
power  of  expression.  Keats  progressed  in 
his  art  to  the  very  period  of  his  "taking 
off." 


98        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine  died : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart  stifled,   in  her 
dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger  moth's  deep-damask'd  wings ; 
And  in  the  midst  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 


One  of  Keats's  latest  essays  in  poetry 
was  the  stately  but  incomplete  "Hyperion." 
For  powerful  word  -  painting,  gloomy 
grandeur  of  conception,  and  the  self-poised, 
almost  weird,  skill  with  which  the  entire 
picture  is  produced  stroke  by  stroke,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  match  the  selection 
which  follows: 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        99 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale, 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 

Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair ; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened  more 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  a  shade :  the  naiad,  'mid  her  reeds, 

Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  footmarks  went, 

No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray'd, 

And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden  ground 

His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 

Unsceptered ;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed ; 

While  his  bow'd  head  seemed  list'ning  to  the  earth, 

His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

Lord  Byron,  who  justly  regarded  the 
death  of  Keats  as  a  loss  to  English  litera- 
ture, said  of  the  poem  from  which  the  fore- 
going lines  are  taken:  "His  fragment  of 
'Hyperion'  seems  actually  inspired  by  the 
Titans,  and  is  as  sublime  as  ^Eschylus." 
Amid  the  world's  sweetest  songs  will  ever 
be  cherished  the  subtly  beautiful  "Ode  to 


ioo      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

the  Nightingale."  The  intense  sympathy 
with  the  great  deep  which  seemed  to  pos- 
sess the  young  poet  has  probably  been  ex- 
perienced in  equal  degree  by  but  one  other 
"builder  of  lofty  rhyme" — namely,  Swin- 
burne. This  sonnet  stands  in  evidence  of 
the  manner  in  which  Keats  could  write  of 
the  sea: 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 

Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty  swell 
Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till  the  spell 

Of  Hecate  leaves  them  their  old  shadowy  sound. 

Often  'tis  in  such  gentle  temper  found 
That  scarcely  will  the  very  smallest  shell 
Be  moved  for  days  from  where  it  sometime  fell 

When  last  the  winds  of  heaven  were  unbound. 

O,  ye  who  have  your  eyeballs  vexed  and  tired, 
Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  sea ; 

O,  ye  whose  ears  are  dimmed  with  uproar  rude, 
Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody, 

Sit  ye  near  some  old  cavern's  mouth  and  brood 
Until  ye  start,  as  if  the  sea  nymphs  quired. 

Perhaps  no  other  poet,  save  Goethe,  has 
ever  obtained  such  immediate  entrance  into 
the  lovely  and  precious  arcana  of  nature. 
To  the  eye  of  Keats  nature  unveiled  her 
most  secret  charm.  Let  it  not  for  a  mo- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      101 

ment  be  believed  that  his  extraordinary  gift 
was  but  the  result  of  an  abnormal  and  mor- 
bid habit  of  sensation.  Genius,  whatever 
the  forms  it  may  assume,  not  seldom  reaches 
its  rarest  perfection  where  common  life  is 
most  dreary  and  inane.  Read  the  riddle, 
ye  who  can.  It  has  been  said  that  Keats's 
friendships  were  always  founded  on  a  slight 
and  unsubstantial  basis,  that  his  own  nature 
was  so  preeminently  selfish  and  his  every 
aspiration  so  self-involved,  that  every 
friendship  was  rendered  precarious  which 
he  ever  formed.  Schiller,  in  a  letter  to 
Korner,  said,  "O  how  beautiful  and  divine 
is  the  union  of  two  souls  which  meet  on 
their  way  to  the  Godhead!"  The  whole 
story  of  Keats's  life  determines  that  he  felt 
no  less  the  potency  of  a  genuine  friendship ; 
otherwise  it  were  passing  strange  that  he 
should  have  been  able  to  knit  to  himself 
with  bands  stronger  than  steel  such  a  man 
as  Severn,  who,  through  all  that  prolonged 
tragedy  of  the  poet's  final  sufferings,  proved 
the  ultimate  possibilities  of  human  devo- 
tion. In  a  letter  to  a  friend  Keats  says : 


102      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

We  cannot  expect  to  give  away  many  hours  to 
pleasure;  circumstances  are  like  clouds,  continually 
gathering  and  bursting  while  we  are  laughing.  The 
seed  of  trouble  is  put  into  the  wide  arable  land  of 
events;  while  we  are  laughing  at  sprouts  it  grows, 
and  suddenly  bears  a  poisonous  fruit,  which  we  must 
pluck.  Even  so  we  have  leisure  to  reason  on  the 
misfortunes  of  our  friends ;  our  own  touch  us  too 
nearly  for  words. 

Here  appear  those  rigid  habits  of  intro- 
spection practiced  by  every  great  mind,  but 
not  that  self-centering  of  the  impulses  of 
love  so  destructive  of  every  gracious  emo- 
tion. The  poet  well  knew  the  value  of  a 
human  soul: 

That  man  is  more  than  half  of  nature's  treasure, 

Of  that  fair  beauty  which  no  eye  can  see, 

Of  that  sweet  music  which  no  ear  can  measure. 

About  two  years  before  the  death  of 
Keats  the  one  great  event  of  his  life  began 
— his  love  affair.  A  new  phase  is  now  dis- 
covered in  the  character  of  the  poet,  flatly 
contradicting  those  who  have  denied  that 
he  was  capable  of  intense  passion,  thereby 
depriving  all  future  works  he  might  have 
produced,  had  he  lived,  of  the  force  and 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      103 

substance  which  the  works  he  has  left  us 
do  not  possess.  In  his  letters,  edited  by 
Mimes,  and  published  many  years  ago,  we 
obtain  a  few  distinct  and  vivid  glimpses  of 
the  object  of  his  desires.  He  writes  to  his 
sister : 

She  is  not  a  Cleopatra,  but  at  least  a  Charmian; 
she  has  a  rich  Eastern  look,  she  has  fine  eyes  and 
manners.  When  she  comes  into  the  room  she  makes 
the  same  impression  as  the  beauty  of  a  leopardess ; 
she  is  too  fine  and  conscious  of  herself  to  repulse  any 
man  that  may  address  her;  from  habit  she  thinks 
that  nothing  particular:  I  always  find  myself  more 
at  ease  with  such  a  woman. 

She  is  a  fine  thing,  speaking  in  a  worldly  way,  for 
there  are  two  distinct  tempers  of  mind  in  which  we 
judge  of  things — the  worldly,  theatrical,  pantomim- 
ical,  and  the  unearthly,  spiritual,  and  ethereal.  In 
the  former,  Bonaparte,  Lord  Byron,  and  the  Char- 
mian hold  the  first  place  in  our  minds ;  in  the  latter, 
John  Howard,  Bishop  Hooker,  rocking  his  child's 
cradle,  and  you,  my  dear  sister,  are  the  conquering 
feelings.  As  a  man  of  the  world  I  love  the  rich  talk 
of  a  Charmian ;  as  an  eternal  being  I  love  the 
thought  of  you.  I  should  like  her  to  ruin  me,  and  I 
should  like  you  to  save  me. 

This  concluding  sentence,  though  sound- 
ing very  much  like  nonsense,  is  nevertheless 
not  unimportant.  It  is  obvious  that  when 


io4      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Keats  wrote  it  the  first  alternative  would 
have  seemed  preferable  to  the  second.  In- 
deed, his  subsequent  story  shows  beyond 
question  that  the  "worldly,  theatrical,  pan- 
tomimical"  decidedly  outweighed,  in  the 
poet's  practical  estimation,  the  "unearthly, 
spiritual,  and  ethereal/'  This  "Charmian," 
whatever  the  fair  qualities  of  mind  and 
heart  of  which  she  may  have  been  possessed, 
soon  brought  into  captivity  the  profoundest' 
impulses  of  her  lover's  nature,  simply  by 
the  peculiar  character  of  her  personal  at- 
tractions. Nor  does  it  appear  that  Fanny 
Brawne  scorned  the  advances  of  the  ardent 
poet,  though  she  seems  to  have  been  far 
from  experiencing  toward  him  an  equal 
fervor  of  devotion.  She  was  not  inconsola- 
ble at  his  loss,  and  after  his  pitiful  death 
duly  settled  down  to  the  duties  of  a  com- 
monplace English  housewife.  It  is  almost 
a  sarcasm  of  destiny  that  she  has  been  pre- 
served from  oblivion  alone  by  her  associa- 
tion with  the  hectic,  passionate,  and  queru- 
lous young  man  whose  memory  she  evidently 
held  in  slight  regard. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      105 

It  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  here  set 
in  juxtaposition  marriage  views  so  entirely 
dissimilar  as  those  of  Schiller  and  Keats. 
In  a  letter  to  a  friend  Schiller  said: 

I  must  marry — that  is  settled.  All  my  induce- 
ments to  life  and  activity  are  worn  out;  this  is  the 
only  one  which  I  have  not  tried.  I  must  have  a 
being  near  me  which  belongs  to  me,  which  I  can  and 
must  make  happy.  You  know  how  desolate  is  my 
spirit,  how  melancholy  my  ideas.  If  I  cannot  weave 
hope  into  my  existence — hope  which  has  almost  de- 
serted me — if  I  cannot  wind  up  anew  the  run-down 
machinery  of  my  thoughts  and  feelings,  it  will  soon 
be  all  over  with  me. 

Keats,  whose  sentiments  at  one  time  were 
the  direct  antitheses  of  Schiller's,  wrote  to 
a  newly  married  brother  in  America: 

Notwithstanding  your  happiness  and  your  recom- 
mendations, I  hope  I  shall  never  marry.  Though 
the  most  beautiful  creature  were  waiting  for  me  at 
the  end  of  a  journey  or  walk,  though  the  carpet  were 
made  of  silk  and  the  curtain  of  the  morning  clouds, 
the  chairs  and  sofas  stuffed  with  cygnet's  down,  the 
food  manna,  the  wine  beyond  claret,  the  window 
opening  on  Windemere,  I  should  not  feel,  or  rather 
my  happiness  should  not  be  so  fine ;  and  my  solitude 
is  sublime.  Then,  instead  of  what  I  have  described, 
there  is  a  sublimity  to  welcome  me  home ;  the  roar- 
ing of  the  wind  is  my  wife,  the  stars  through  my 


106      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

window-panes  are  my  children.  The  mighty  abstract 
idea  of  beauty  in  all  things  I  have  stifles  the  more 
divided  and  minute  domestic  happiness.  An  ami- 
able wife  and  sweet  children  I  contemplate  as  parts 
of  that  beauty,  but  I  must  have  a  thousand  of  those 
beautiful  particles  to  fill  up  my  heart.  I  feel  more 
and  more  every  day,  as  my  imagination  strengthens, 
that  I  do  not  live  in  this  world  alone,  but  in  a  thou- 
sand worlds.  .  .  .  Those  things,  combined  with  the 
opinion  I  have  formed  of  the  quality  of  women,  who 
appear  to  me  as  children,  to  whom  I  would  rather 
give  a  sugarplum  than  my  time,  form  a  barrier 
against  matrimony  which  I  rejoice  in. 

That  Keats  completely  revised  his  judg- 
ments in  the  particulars  of  which  this  letter 
treats,  the  quotations  previously  presented 
abundantly  prove.  The  following  lines,  ad- 
dressed to  Mr.  J.  K.  Reynolds  before  the 
time  the  "Charmian"  fever  overtook  him, 
and  when  his  health  was  already  failing, 
also  denote  that  Keats's  views  of  the  subject 
had  undergone  a  change: 

One  of  the  first  pleasures  I  look  to  is  your  happy 
marriage,  the  more  so  since  I  have  felt  the  pleasure 
of  loving  a  sister-in-law.  I  did  not  think  it  possible 
to  become  so  much  attached  in  so  short  a  time ; 
things  like  these,  and  they  are  real,  have  made  me 
resolve  to  have  a  care  of  my  health. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      107 

Of  the  religious  sentiments  of  the  poet 
not  much  needs  to  be  written.  In  one  of  his 
letters  he  thus  meditates: 

Though  a  quarrel  in  the  streets  is  a  thing  to  be 
hated,  the  energies  displayed  in  it  are  fine ;  the  com- 
monest man  shows  a  grace  in  his  quarrel.  By  a 
superior  being  our  reasonings  may  take  the  same 
tone;  though  erroneous,  they  may  be  fine. 

On  one  occasion  he  falls  into  the  vulgar 
impiety  of  juxtaposing  our  Saviour  and 
Socrates.  That  the  mind  of  Keats  was  in 
a  transitional  state  is  evident.  Through  all 
his  spiritual  mutations  appear  an  earnest- 
ness of  purpose  and  an  unbaffled  groping 
after  a  high  and  fleeting  ideal,  lovely 
glimpses  of  which  have  been  flashed  upon 
his  inner  vision.  In  another  letter  he  says : 

I  have,  of  late,  been  molting — not  for  fresh 
feathers  and  wings ;  they  are  gone,  and  in  their  stead 
I  hope  to  have  a  pair  of  sublunary  legs.  I  have  al- 
tered— not  from  a  chrysalis  into  a  butterfly,  but  the 
contrary.  ...  A  year  ago  I  could  not  understand 
in  the  slightest  degree  Raphael's  cartoons ;  now  I 
begin  to  read  them  a  little.  .  .  .  Some  think  I  have 
lost  that  poetic  fire  and  ardor  I  once  had;  the  fact 
is,  I  perhaps  have,  but  instead  of  that  I  hope  I  shall 
substitute  a  more  thoughtful  and  quiet  power. 


io8      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Though  the  poetry  of  Keats  is  mainly 
objective  in  its  character,  and  as  such  ex- 
hibits the  most  minute  and  careful  observa- 
tion, he  did  not  lack  those  prolonged  and 
profound  inward  searchings  which  prove 
to  the  serious  and  inquiring  mind  of  how 
much  greater  interest  is  the  esoteric  than 
the  exoteric  world.  The  sonnet  here  pre- 
sented reveals  the  undaunted  and  undefeat- 
ed self-examinations  of  a  courageous  spirit : 

Why  did  I  laugh  to-night?  no  voice  will  tell, 

No  God,  no  demon  of  severe  response 
Deigns  to  reply  from  heaven  or  from  hell ; 

Then  to  my  human  heart  I  turn  at  once — 
Heart !  thou  and  I  are  here,  sad  and  alone ; 

I  say,  wherefore  did  I  laugh  ? — O  mortal  pain ! 
O !  darkness !  darkness !  ever  must  I  moan 

To  question  heaven  and  hell  and  heart  in  vain — 
Why  did  I  laugh?     I  know  this  being's  lease 

My  fancy  to  its  utmost  blisses  spreads, 
Yet  could  I  on  this  very  midnight  cease, 

And  the  world's  gaudy  ensigns  see  in  shreds ; 
Verse,  fame,  and  beauty  are  intense  indeed, 
But  death  intenser,  death  is  life's  high  meed. 

The  following  extract  from  still  another 
letter  will  illustrate  the  passionate,  almost 
rapturous,  pleasure  he  experienced  in  the 
composition  of  his  works.  He  says: 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      109 

This  morning  poetry  has  conquered.  I  have  re- 
lapsed into  those  abstractions  which  are  my  only 
life.  I  feel  escaped  from  a  new  and  threatening  sor- 
row ;  and  am  thankful  for  it.  There  is  an  awful 
warmth  about  my  heart  like  a  load  of  immortality. 

Of  the  poetical  character  he  observes: 

It  has  as  much  delight  in  conceiving  an  lago  as  an 
Imogene.  What  shocks  the  virtuous  philosopher 
delights  the  chameleon  poet.  ...  A  poet  is  the  most 
unpoetical  of  anything  in  existence,  because  he  has 
no  identity ;  he  is  continually  in  for  and  filling  some 
other  body.  The  sun,  the  moon,  the  sea,  and  men 
and  women,  who  are  creatures  of  an  impulse,  are 
poetical,  and  have  about  them  an  unchangeable  at- 
tribute ;  the  poet  has  none ;  no  identity ;  he  is  cer- 
tainly the  most  unpoetical  of  all  God's  creatures. 

That  Keats  was  not  a  finished  writer 
must,  perhaps,  be  conceded;  but  that,  like 
Korner,  the  poet-hero  of  Germany,  he  gave 
rich  promise  of  a  glorious  fruitage  will  be 
granted.  And  they  must  indeed  be  poor 
judges  of  literature  who  are  not  delighted 
with  what  he  has  left. 

A  few  words  as  to  the  temperament  and 
personal  appearance  of  the  poet.  His  tem- 
per, until  just  before  his  death,  always  was 
of  the  gentlest  description.  It  has  already 
8 


i  io      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

been  remarked  that  he  was  a  person  of 
strong  and  irritable  sensibilities,  and  so 
extreme  was  his  sensitiveness  that  he  would 
betray  emotion  even  to  tears  on  hearing  of 
a  noble  action,  or  at  the  expression  of  a 
glowing  thought  or  one  of  pathetic  tender- 
ness ;  yet  both  his  moral  and  physical  cour- 
age were  above  suspicion.  The  physiog- 
nomy of  the  poet  was  indicative  of  his  char- 
acter. Sensibility  was  predominant,  but 
there  was  no  lack  of  power  in  the  somewhat 
pugnacious  nose  and  mouth.  His  features 
were  clearly  defined,  and  delicately  suscep- 
tible of  every  impression.  His  eyes  were 
large  and  shadowy,  his  cheeks  hollow  and 
sunken,  and  his  face  pallid  in  repose.  His 
hair  was  brown  in  color,  and  curled  natural- 
ly. His  head  was  small,  and  set  upon 
broad,  high  shoulders,  his  body  was  long 
and  abnormally  large  in  proportion  to  his 
lower  limbs,  which,  however,  were  not  un- 
shapely. His  stature  was  low;  and  "his 
hands,"  says  Leigh  Hunt,  "were  faded,  hav- 
ing prominent  veins,  which  he  would  look 
upon  and  pronounce  to  belong  to  one  who 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      in 

had  seen  fifty  years."  "There  is  death  in 
that  hand,"  said  Coleridge,  after  having 
clasped  the  hand  of  Keats. 

For  several  years  before  his  demise  the 
poet  had  felt  disease  creeping  upon  him,  and 
knew  that  death  was  already  busy  in  a  sys- 
tem too  imperfectly  organized.  He  had  im- 
prudently neglected  his  own  health  to  at- 
tend a  dying  brother,  when  he  should  have 
remembere'd  it  was  also  necessary  to  take 
care  of  himself.  He  was  combating  the 
keenness  of  his  sorrow  consequent  upon  his 
bereavement  by  the  decease  of  his  brother, 
when  the  Zoilus  of  the  Quarterly  attacked 
him,  adding  new  pain  to  his  already  over- 
wrought spirit,  so  that  he  told  a  friend  one 
day,  with  tears,  that  "his  heart  was  break- 
ing." He  was  at  length  induced  to  try  the 
climate  of  Italy.  Thither  he  went  to  die. 
He  was  accompanied  in  his  weakness  by 
Severn,  his  valuable  and  attached  friend 
and  an  artist  of  considerable  talent.  They 
first  went  to  Naples,  thence  journeying  to 
Rome,  where  Keats  closed  his  eyes  on  this 
world  February  24,  1821,  being  a  little  more 


ii2      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

than  twenty-five  years  of  age.  He  eagerly 
wished  for  death,  and  shortly  before  he  died 
he  said  he  "felt  the  daisies  growing  over 
him."  "He  suffered  so  much  in  his  linger- 
ing," says  Leigh  Hunt,  "that  he  used  to 
watch  the  countenance  of  his  physician  for 
the  favorable  and  fatal  sentence,  and  ex- 
press regret  when  he  found  it  delayed." 
His  remains  were  deposited  in  the  cemetery 
of  the  Protestants  at  Rome,  at  the  foot  of 
the  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius,  near  the  Porta 
San  Paolo.  "It  might  make  one  in  love 
with  death,"  wrote  Shelley,  "to  think  that 
one  should  be  buried  in  so  sweet  a  place." 
A  white  marble  tombstone,  bearing  a  lyre, 
in  basso  relievo,  and  the  following  inscrip- 
tion— the  closing  words  of  which  were  his 
own — has  been  erected  to  his  memory : 

This  grave  contains  all  that  was  mortal  of  a  Young 
English  Poet,  who  on  his  deathbed,  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  heart  at  the  malicious  power  of  his  enemies, 
desired  these  words  to  be  engraved  on  his  tombstone : 
"Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water." 
Feb.  24th,  1821. 


IV 
GEORGE  ELIOT 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      115 


IV 

GEORGE   ELIOT 

FEW,  if  any,  luminaries  in  the  bright 
galaxy  of  modern  English  novelists  outshine 
that  peculiar  and  vivid  orb  the  splendor  of 
which  still  burns  steadily  across  "the  dark 
background  and  abysm  of  time/'  though 
the  glory  of  Trollope,  Lytton,  Kingsley, 
Reade,  Scott,  and  even  Dickens  and  Thack- 
eray seems  to  wane  through  the  passing  dec- 
ades which  have  quenched  so  many  lesser 
lights.  On  the  night  of  December  22,  1880, 
George  Eliot  conquered  "the  fever  called 
living,"  and  entered  into  her  rest,  only  a 
few  months  after  the  literary  Grundies  were 
convulsed  with  astonishment  at  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  marriage  of  this  eminent 
woman  with  Mr.  J.  W.  Cross,  a  London 
banker,  formerly  resident  in  New  York.  It 
has  been  stated  that  Mary  Ann  (or  Marian) 
Evans  was  the  daughter  of  a  poor  clergy- 
man who  at  one  time  was  attached  to  the 


Il6      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Church  of  England,  but  eventually  became 
a  Presbyterian  minister.  It  has  been  de- 
clared, also,  that  she  was  adopted  in  early 
life  by  another  clergyman  of  considerable 
wealth,  who  afforded  her  opportunities  for 
securing  a  first-class  education.  These  state- 
ments are  entirely  inaccurate.  The  facts 
of  her  early  life  are  little  known,  and  she 
herself  was  characterized  by  the  reticence 
of  genius  concerning  her  own  biographical 
data. 

Mary  Ann  Evans  was  born  at  Arbury 
Farm,  in  Warwickshire,  England,  Novem- 
ber 22,  1819.  She  remained  in  the  parental 
home,  first  at  Griff,  on  the  same  estate,  and 
afterward  at  Coventry,  until  1849.  Her 
father,  Robert  Evans,  was  a  land  agent  and 
surveyor,  and  served  for  many  years  as 
agent  for  the  estates  of  more  than  one  old 
Warwickshire  family.  In  the  Midlands  he 
is  still  held  in  kind  remembrance  as  a  man 
of  sterling  probity  and  uprightness  of  con- 
duct. Undoubtedly  this  father  was  the 
prototype  of  more  than  one  admirable  char- 
acter in  the  stories  of  his  gifted  daughter. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      117 

George  Eliot's  early  years  were  passed  in 
the  regions  haunted  by  the  memories  of 
Shakespeare.  Though  it  is  not  clear  just 
how  or  where  her  education  was  obtained, 
she  seems  to  have  received  very  careful  and 
adequate  mental  training.  Leaving  home, 
she  came  to  London  while  yet  a  young 
woman,  and  devoted  herself  to  serious  liter- 
ature. She  became  associated  with  John 
Stuart  Mill,  Herbert  Spencer,  George  Henry 
Lewes,  John  Chapman,  and  other  writers 
in  the  Westminster  Review,  and  in  time 
came  to  sustain  an  editorial  connection  with 
that  publication.  In  her  twenty-sixth  year 
she  published  a  translation  of  Strauss's  fa- 
mous Life  of  Jesus,  her  first  important 
work.  Eight  years  later  appeared  her  trans- 
lation of  Feuerbach's  Essence  of  Christian- 
ity. The  dialectic  nature  of  the  products  of 
her  pen  introduced  her  to  the  philosophic 
society  of  that  period,  of  which  she  soon 
became  a  leading  member.  It  is  a  question 
whether  the  abstruse  studies  in  which  she 
engaged  were  of  any  great  advantage  to 
her  in  her  equipment  as  a  novelist,  though 


n8      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

doubtless  in  mental  poise  and  accuracy  in 
the  use  of  language  she  was  steadied  and 
guided  by  the  discipline  which  she  received 
in  her  philosophic  researches. 

Such  a  genius  as  Miss  Evans  possessed 
could  not  long  remain  in  the  thralls  of  pure 
didacticism,  and  at  the  suggestion  of  Her- 
bert Spencer  she  entered  the  field  of  the 
novelist.  The  noin  de  plume  "George  Eliot" 
she  employed  for  the  first  time  when  her 
initial  work  of  fiction  was  sent  to  Black- 
wood's  Magazine.  The  manuscript  of  this 
book,  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  was  dis- 
patched anonymously  to  the  editor  of  Black- 
wood's,  who  at  once  accepted  it,  believing 
that  he  discovered  in  it  the  first  fruits  of  an 
unusual  and  superior  ability.  George  Henry 
Lewes  acted  as  Miss  Evans's  agent  and  ad- 
viser in  this  transaction,  and  about  the  same 
time  began  that  intimate  association  and 
literary  companionship  which  was  to  termi- 
nate only  with  the  death  of  Lewes,  in  1878. 
Even  at  this  day  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that 
the  circumstances  and  events  of  a  peculiar 
professional  life,  depicted  with  such  rare 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      119 

skill,  pathos,  and  fidelity,  were  not  at  some 
time  included  in  the  writer's  personal  ex- 
perience. This  earliest  book  of  stories  re- 
vealed in  George  Eliot  the  possession  of 
that  loftiest  attribute  of  genius,  the  power 
of  self-effacement  and  the  projection  of  the 
author's  mind  with  intensest  sympathy  into 
her  own  imaginative  creations,  until  they 
become  as  real  and  vital  as  their  antitypes 
of  flesh  and  blood.  This  gift  is  sometimes 
called  the  dramatic  instinct,  and  is  disclosed 
in  its  perfection  by  Shakespeare,  and  in  a 
scarcely  less  degree,  though  in  an  almost 
wholly  subjective  relation,  by  Browning, 
and,  notwithstanding  the  eccentric  manner 
of  its  presentation,  in  another  realm  by 
George  Meredith.  Of  the  work  of  an  au- 
thor endowed  with  the  dramatic  instinct  in 
its  highest  form  the  delighted  reader  might 
say,  as  Emerson  remarked  of  Montaigne's 
essays,  "Cut  these  words,  and  they  would 
bleed."  It  is  hardly  possible  to  illustrate 
our  meaning  by  any  passage  wrenched  from 
its  connection,  unless  it  be  one  which,  with 
its  context,  is  familiar  to  the  reader  and  in 


120      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

his  thought  receives  emphasis  from  its  set- 
ting in  the  completed  story.  However,  we 
will  venture  the  following  excerpt  from 
Middlemarch.  It  is  a  portion  of  that  chap- 
ter descriptive  of  the  scene  between  Will 
Ladislaw  and  Rosamond  Lydgate  after  they 
have  been  surprised  by  Dorothea  Casaubon 
in  a  confidential  interview : 

It  would  have  been  safe  for  Will,  in  the  first  in- 
stance, to  have  taken  up  his  hat  and  gone  away ;  but 
he  had  felt  no  impulse  to  do  this ;  on  the  contrary, 
he  had  a  horrible  inclination  to  stay  and  shatter 
Rosamond  with  his  anger.  It  seemed  as  impossible 
to  bear  the  fatality  she  had  drawn  down  on  him 
without  venting  his  fury  as  it  would  be  to  a  panther 
to  bear  the  javelin  wound  without  springing  and 
biting.  And  yet — how  could  he  tell  a  woman  that  he 
was  ready  to  curse  her?  He  was  fuming  under  a 
repressive  law  which  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge. 
He  was  dangerously  poised,  and  Rosamond's  voice 
now  brought  the  decisive  vibration.  In  flutelike 
tones  of  sarcasm  she  said : 

"You  can  easily  go  after  Mrs.  Casaubon  and  ex- 
plain your  preference." 

"Go  after  her !"  he  burst  out,  with  a  sharp  edge  in 
his  voice.  "Do  you  think  she  would  turn  to  look  at 
me,  or  value  any  word  I  ever  uttered  to  her  again  as 
more  than  a  dirty  feather  ?  Explain !  How  can  a 
man  explain  at  the  expense  of  a  woman  ?" 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      121 

"You  can  tell  her  what  you  please,"  said  Rosa- 
mond, with  more  tremor. 

"Do  you  suppose  she  would  like  me  better  for  sac- 
rificing you?  She  is  not  a  woman  to  be  flattered 
because  I  made  myself  despicable — to  believe  that  I 
must  be  true  to  her  because  I  was  a  dastard  to  you." 

He  began  to  move  about  with  the  restlessness  of  a 
wild  animal  that  sees  prey  but  cannot  reach  it.  Pres- 
ently he  burst  out  again : 

"I  had  no  hope  before — not  much — of  anything 
better  to  come.  But  I  had  one  certainty — that  she 
believed  in  me.  Whatever  people  had  said  or  done 
about  me,  she  believed  in  me.  That's  gone !  She'll 
never  again  think  me  anything  but  a  paltry  pretense 
— too  nice  to  take  heaven  except  upon  flattering  con- 
ditions, and  yet  selling  myself  for  any  devil's  change 
by  the  sly.  She'll  think  of  me  as  an  incarnate  insult 
to  her,  from  the  first  moment  we — " 

Will  stopped  as  if  he  had  found  himself  grasping 
something  that  must  not  be  thrown  and  shattered. 
He  found  another  vent  for  his  rage  by  snatching  up 
Rosamond's  words  again,  as  if  they  were  reptiles  to 
be  throttled  and  flung  off. 

"Explain !  Tell  a  man  to  explain  how  he  dropped 
into  hell !  Explain  my  preference !  I  never  had  a 
preference  for  her,  any  more  than  I  have  a  preference 
for  breathing.  No  other  woman  exists  by  the  side 
of  her.  I  would  rather  touch  her  hand  if  it  were 
dead  than  I  would  touch  any  other  woman's  living." 

Not  a  little  has  been  said  regarding 
George  Eliot's  tendency  to  moralize,  again 


122      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

and  again  interrupting  the  course  of  her 
narrative  to  deliver  a  homily  more  or  less 
obvious  even  to  the  casual  reader.  This 
may  or  may  not  be  true ;  in  the  opinion  of 
at  least  one  of  her  readers  George  Eliot's 
preachments  are  of  a  kind  that  we  could 
illy  spare  in  a  world  which  is  not  too  easily 
impressed  with  the  value  of  moral  excel- 
lence and  the  things  "pure,"  "lovely,"  and 
"of  good  report."  To  return  to  Scenes  of 
Clerical  Life,  who  that  traverses  "Mr. 
GilfiTs  Love  Story"  would  be  content  to 
omit  from  it  such  reflections,  mingled  with 
glimpses  of  natural  phenomena,  as  follows? 

The  inexorable  ticking  of  the  clock  is  like  the 
throb  of  pain  to  sensations  made  keen  by  a  sickening 
fear.  And  so  it  is  with  the  great  clockwork  of  na- 
ture. Daisies  and  buttercups  give  way  to  the  brown 
waving  grasses,  tinged  with  the  warm  red  sorrel ;  the 
waving  grasses  are  swept  away,  and  the  meadows  lie 
like  emeralds  set  in  the  bushy  hedgerows;  the 
tawny-tipped  corn  begins  to  bow  with  the  weight  of 
the  full  ear ;  the  reapers  are  bending  amongst  it,  and 
it  soon  stands  in  sheaves ;  then,  presently,  the  patches 
of  yellow  stubble  lie  side  by  side  with  streaks  of 
dark-red  earth,  which  the  plow  is  turning  up  in 
preparation  for  the  new-threshed  seed.  And  this 
passage  from  beauty  to  beauty,  which  to  the  happy  is 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      123 

like  the  flow  of  a  melody,  measures  for  many  a  hu- 
man heart  the  approach  of  foreseen  anguish — seems 
hurrying  on  the  moment  when  the  shadow  of  dread 
will  be  followed  up  by  the  reality  of  despair.  .  .  . 

While  this  poor  little  heart  was  being  bruised  with 
a  weight  too  heavy  for  it  nature  was  holding  on  her 
calm,  inexorable  way,  in  unmoved  and  terrible 
beauty.  The  stars  were  rushing  in  their  eternal 
courses ;  the  tides  swelled  to  the  level  of  the  last  ex- 
pectant weed ;  the  sun  was  making  brilliant  day  to 
busy  nations  on  the  other  side  of  the  swift  earth. 
The  stream  of  human  thought  and  deed  was  hurry- 
ing and  broadening  onward.  The  astronomer  was 
at  his  telescope ;  the  great  ships  were  laboring  over 
the  waves ;  the  toiling  eagerness  of  commerce,  the 
fierce  spirit  of  revolution,  were  only  ebbing  in  brief 
rest ;  and  sleepless  statesmen  were  dreading  the  pos- 
sible crisis  of  the  morrow.  What  were  our  little 
Tina  and  her  trouble  in  this  mighty  torrent,  rushing 
from  one  awful  unknown  to  another?  Lighter  than 
the  smallest  center  of  quivering  life  in  the  water 
drop,  hidden  and  uncared  for  as  the  pulse  of  anguish 
in  the  breast  of  the  tiniest  bird  that  has  fluttered 
down  to  its  nest  with  the  long-sought  food,  and  has 
found  the  nest  torn  and  empty. 

The  three  stories,  "The  Sad  Fortunes  of 
the  Reverend  Amos  Barton,"  "Mr.  Gilfil's 
Love  Story,"  and  "Janet's  Repentance," 
which  constitute  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life, 
scarcely  betray  the  hand  of  the  novice.  So 


124      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

well  managed  and  easy  is  the  dialogue,  so 
smooth  are  the  transitions  of  the  narrative, 
so  finely  balanced  and  adjusted  are  all  the 
elements  of  the  characters  portrayed,  that 
Miss  Evans  seems  to  have  appeared  com- 
pletely equipped  in  the  literary  arena,  as 
Minerva  is  said  to  have  emerged  full-armed 
from  the  brow  of  Jupiter.  Though,  at  this 
day,  it  would  seem  that  anyone  possessed  of 
literary  perception  must  have  discovered  in 
these  tales  of  provincial  life  evidences  of 
the  remarkable  imaginative  fertility  and  in- 
tellectual richness  of  the  author's  mind,  it 
was  not  until  the  publication  of  her  next 
story,  Adam  Bede,  in  1857,  that  her  reputa- 
tion was  assured  as  a  fresh  and  cogent  per- 
sonality in  the  field  of  letters.  Upon  the 
appearance  of  this  new  book  George  Eliot 
sprang  at  a  single  bound  into  the  very  van 
of  modern  British  novelists.  Adam  Bedc 
has  been  criticised  on  at  least  two  grounds : 
first,  it  is  alleged  that  the  story  presents  a 
false  and  distorted  portrayal  of  "the  people 
called  Methodists ;"  and,  second,  that  in  cer- 
tain portions  of  the  book  subjects  tabooed 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      125 

in  polite  circles  are  treated  with  indelicacy. 
As  to  the  first  objection,  anyone  familiar 
with  the  history  of  early  Methodism  in  Eng- 
land will  exonerate  the  author  of  Adam 
Bede  from  the  charge  of  inaccuracy  or  a 
willful  perversion  of  facts.  It  cannot  be 
denied  that,  amid  the  varying  phases,  the 
stirring  scenes,  and  the  intense  agitation  of 
rude  but  earnest  human  nature,  early  Meth- 
odism produced  strange  and  diverse  devel- 
opments both  of  piety  and  conduct.  The 
second  charge  would  scarcely  be  insisted  on 
in  these  days  by  any  person  at  all  familiar 
with  the  products  of  some  recent  writers  of 
fiction — though  the  signs  of  a  healthful  re- 
action against  the  pruriency  of  much  recent 
so-called  literature,  and  the  demand  for 
Stevenson's,  Weyman's,  Doyle's,  Hope's, 
and  Crockett's  romances  of  derring-do  and 
chivalrous  adventure,  indicate  a  return  to 
good  old  Sir  Walter's  knightly  tales,  and 
the  generous  and  sweetly  human  pages  of 
Thackeray,  Dickens,  Hawthorne,  Reade, 
Trollope,  and  Kingsley. 
With  what  strength  and  delicacy  George 
9 


126      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Eliot  can  treat  these  subjects  which  are 
generally  tabooed  the  ensuing  passage  from 
Adam  Bede  attests : 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  when  Hetty  set  off,  and 
the  slight  hoarfrost  that  had  whitened  the  hedges  in 
the  early  morning  had  disappeared  as  the  sun 
mounted  the  cloudless  sky.  Bright  February  days 
have  a  stronger  charm  of  hope  about  them  than  any 
other  days  in  the  year.  One  likes  to  pause  in  the 
mild  rays  of  the  sun  and  look  over  the  gate  at  the 
patient  plow  horses  turning  at  the  end  of  the  furrow, 
and  think  that  the  beautiful  year  is  all  before  one. 
The  birds  seem  to  feel  just  the  same;  their  notes 
are  as  clear  as  the  clear  air.  There  are  no  leaves  on 
the  trees  and  hedgerows,  but  how  green  all  the 
grassy  fields  are !  and  the  dark  purplish  brown  of 
the  plowed  earth  and  the  bare  branches  is  beautiful, 
too.  What  a  glad  world  this  looks  as  one  drives  or 
rides  along  the  valleys  and  over  the  hills !  I  have 
often  thought  so  when,  in  foreign  countries,  where 
the  fields  and  woods  have  looked  to  me  like  our  Eng- 
lish Loamshire — the  rich  land  tilled  with  just  as 
much  care,  the  woods  rolling  down  the  gentle  slopes 
to  the  green  meadows — I  have  come  on  something 
by  the  roadside  which  has  reminded  me  that  I  am 
not  in  Loamshire :  an  image  of  a  great  agony — the 
agony  of  the  cross.  It  has  stood,  perhaps,  by  the 
clustering  apple  blossoms,  or  in  the  broad  sunshine 
by  the  cornfield,  or  at  a  turning  by  the  wood  where  a 
clear  brook  was  gurgling  below ;  and  surely,  if  there 
came  a  traveler  to  this  world  who  knew  nothing  of 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      127 

the  story  of  man's  life  upon  it,  this  image  of  agony 
would  seem  to  him  strangely  out  of  place  in  the 
midst  of  this  joyous  nature.  He  would  not  know 
that,  hidden  behind  the  apple  blossoms,  or  among  the 
golden  corn,  or  under  the  shrouding  boughs  of  the 
wood,  there  might  be  a  human  heart  beating  heavily 
with  anguish — perhaps  a  young  blooming  girl,  not 
knowing  where  to  turn  for  refuge  from  swift-ad- 
vancing shame;  understanding  no  more  of  this  life 
of  ours  than  a  foolish  lost  lamb  wandering  farther 
and  farther  in  the  nightfall  on  the  lonely  heath,  yet 
tasting  the  bitterest  of  life's  bitterness. 

Such  things  are  sometimes  hidden  among  the  sunny 
fields  and  behind  the  blossoming  orchards ;  and  the 
sound  of  the  gurgling  brook,  if  you  came  close  to 
one  spot  behind  a  small  bush,  would  be  mingled  for 
your  ear  with  a  despairing  human  sob.  No  wonder 
man's  religion  has  much  sorrow  in  it;  no  wonder  he 
needs  a  suffering  God. 

Hetty,  in  her  red  cloak  and  warm  bonnet,  with  her 
basket  in  her  hand,  is  turning  toward  a  gate  by  the 
side  of  the  Treddleston  road,  but  not  that  she  may 
have  a  more  lingering  enjoyment  of  the  sunshine  and 
think  hope  of  the  long  unfolding  year.  She  hardly 
knows  that  the  sun  is  shining;  and  for  weeks  now, 
when  she  has  hoped  at  all,  it  has  been  for  something 
at  which  she  herself  trembles  and  shudders.  She 
only  wants  to  be  out  of  the  high  road,  that  she  may 
walk  slowly,  and  not  care  how  her  face  looks 
as  she  dwells  on  wretched  thoughts;  and  through 
this  gate  she  can  get  into  a  field  path  behind  the 
wide,  thick  hedgerows.  Her  great  dark  eyes  wander 


ii>8      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

blankly  over  the  fields  like  the  eyes  of  one  who  is 
desolate,  homeless,  unloved,  not  the  promised  bride 
of  a  brave,  tender  man.  But  there  are  no  tears  in 
them ;  her  tears  were  all  wept  away  in  the  weary 
night  before  she  went  to  sleep. 

After  the  publication  of  Adam  Bede,  in 
rapid  succession  followed  The  Mill  on  the 
Floss,  Silas  Marner,  Romola,  Felix  Holt, 
the  Radical;  Middlemarch,  Daniel  Deronda, 
and  Theophrastiis  Such.  In  the  Mill  on  the 
Floss  is  presented,  with  all  the  skill  of  com- 
position, nicest  choice  of  incident,  and  the 
abounding  resources  of  genius,  the  love  of 
a  brother  and  sister  who  in  their  death  were 
not  divided.  But  it  is  a  moot  point  whether 
in  Middlemarch  or  Romola  the  splendid  lit- 
erary ability  of  George  Eliot  reached  its 
highest  level.  Perhaps  the  honors  are  about 
equally  divided  between  the  two  volumes. 
In  Romola  the  figure  of  Savonarola,  the  Do- 
minican monk — imposing,  dark,  mysterious 
— stalks  amid  the  lurid  and  stormy  scenes 
which  in  Florence  made  tragic  the  closing 
years  of  the  corrupt  century  in  which  he 
lived.  It  is  with  a  loving  hand  that  the 
writer  has  painted,  stroke  by  stroke,  the 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      129 

portrait  of  the  great  preacher  and  reformer, 
impressing  upon  her  readers,  in  a  manner 
never  to  be  forgotten,  the  Prate's  fiery  elo- 
quence, his  consuming  earnestness,  his  un- 
compromising boldness,  his  refinement  and 
mysticism.  The  strong  resemblance  which 
the  countenance  of  George  Eliot  bore  to 
that  of  Savonarola  has  frequently  been  re- 
marked, and  it  may  have  been  the  uncon- 
scious sympathy  thus  engendered  within 
her  that  enabled  her  to  produce  so  vital  and 
memorable  a  portrayal  of  the  Florentine 
prophet.  One  of  the  most  artistically 
wrought,  as  well  as  realistic,  incidents  of 
modern  fiction  is  that  wherein  Tito  Melema 
escapes  death  by  drowning  in  the  stream 
only  to  meet  it  in  the  long  grass  on  the  river 
bank  at  the  hands  of  his  injured  and  fren- 
zied father.  This  passage  will  also  serve 
as  an  adequate  example  of  the  method  by 
which  George  Eliot  produces,  word  by  word 
and  sentence  by  sentence,  the  culminating 
and  abiding  impression: 

Tito  knew  him,  but  he  did  not  know  whether  it 
was  life  or  death  that  had  brought  him  into  the  pres- 


130      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

ence  of  his  injured  father.  It  might  be  death — and 
death  might  mean  this  chill  gloom,  with  the  face  of 
the  hideous  past  hanging  over  him  forever. 

But  now  Baldassarre's  only  dread  was  lest  the 
young  limbs  should  escape  him.  He  pressed  his 
knuckles  against  the  round  throat  and  knelt  upon 
the  chest  with  all  the  force  of  his  aged  frame.  Let 
death  come  now. 

Again  he  kept  watch  on  the  face.  And  when  the 
eyes  were  rigid  again  he  dared  not  trust  them.  He 
would  never  lose  his  hold  till  some  one  came  and 
found  them.  Justice  would  send  some  witness,  and 
then  he,  Baldassarre,  would  declare  that  he  had  killed 
this  traitor,  to  whom  he  had  once  been  a  father. 
They  would,  perhaps,  believe  him  now,  and  then  he 
would  be  content  with  struggle  of  justice  on  earth — 
then  he  would  desire  to  die  with  his  hold  on  this 
body,  and  follow  the  traitor  to  hell  that  he  might 
clutch  him  there. 

And  so  he  knelt,  and  so  he  pressed  his  knuckles 
against  the  round  throat,  without  trusting  to  the 
seeming  death,  till  the  light  got  strong,  and  he  could 
kneel  no  longer.  Then  he  sat  on  the  body,  still 
clutching  the  neck  of  the  tunic.  But  the  hours  went 
on,  and  no  witness  came.  No  eyes  descried,  afar 
off,  the  two  human  bodies  among  the  tall  grass  by 
the  riverside.  Florence  was  busy  with  greater  af- 
fairs and  the  preparation  of  a  deeper  tragedy. 

Not  long  after  these  two  bodies  were  lying  in  the 
grass  Savonarola  was  being  tortured,  and  crying  out 
in  his  agony,  "I  will  confess." 

It  was  not  until  the  sun  was  westward  that  a 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      131 

wagon,  drawn  by  a  mild  gray  ox,  came  to  the  edge 
of  the  grassy  margin,  and  as  the  man  who  led  it 
was  leaning  to  gather  up  the  round  stones  that  lay 
heaped  in  readiness  to  be  carried  away  he  detected 
some  startling  object  in  the  grass.  The  aged  man 
had  fallen  forward,  and  his  dead  clutch  was  on  the 
garment  of  the  other.  It  was  not  possible  to  separate 
them — nay,  it  was  better  to  put  them  into  the  wagon 
and  carry  them  as  they  were  into  the  great  Piazza, 
that  notice  might  be  given  to  the  Eight. 

Romola  is  not  George  Eliot's  most  popu- 
lar novel,  but,  as  illustrating  her  vast  con- 
structive skill,  the  polemical  bias  of  her 
mind,  the  singular  ability  with  which  she 
could  turn  current  traditions  and  historical 
events  to  the  novelist's  account,  her  wide 
acquaintance  with  ancient  and  mediaeval  lit- 
erature, and  her  power  of  absorbing  the 
peculiar  aura  of  an  ardent  nationality,  this 
book  will  always  be  considered  among  her 
best.  The  virile  quality  of  this  great 
woman's  writings  is  indicated  by  the  fact 
that  for  years  the  pseudonym  under  which 
she  wrote  was  accepted  as  the  genuine  name 
of  a  man  of  extraordinary  genius  and 
knowledge.  We  know  of  but  one  other 
such  instance  of  equal  interest  on  record, 


132      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

and  that  is  of  a  notable  French  woman  who 
for  many  years  sent  forth  her  writings  to 
the  world  under  the  fictitious  name  of 
George  Sand. 

The  private  life  of  George  Eliot  has  been 
made  the  subject  of  much  unfair  and  igno- 
rant discussion.  The  paucity  of  details  re- 
garding her  domestic  affairs  renders  it  not 
altogether  safe  to  pronounce  judgment  upon 
what  may,  superficially,  perhaps,  appear  to 
be  a  violation  of  the  sanctity  of  the  mar- 
riage bond.  It  has  already  been  stated  that 
the  manuscript  of  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 
was  sent  to  the  publishers  of  Blackwood's 
Magazine  by  George  Henry  Lewes.  Mr. 
Lewes  was  a  student  of  philosophy,  the  au- 
thor of  a  few  philosophical  treatises,  and 
the  writer  of  a  Life  of  Goethe,  by  which 
work  he  is  best  known.  He  had  a  wife  who 
had  abandoned  him  two  or  three  times ;  aft- 
er having  condoned  her  offenses  on  former 
occasions,  he  at  last  refused  to  countenance 
longer  her  vagaries  of  passion,  and  so  made 
their  separation  final.  He  met  Mary  Ann 
Evans,  being  attracted  to  her  both  by  her 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      133 

philosophical  writings  and  admiration  for 
her  superior  intellectual  attainments,  and, 
though  Miss  Evans  was  reticent  to  an  ex- 
treme degree,  she  was  finally  persuaded  to 
share  with  him  his  home.  It  seems  to  have 
been  a  case  of  purely  mental  affinity.  They 
lived  together  in  London,  and  henceforth 
to  her  intimate  friends  George  Eliot  be- 
came known  as  Mrs.  Lewes.  Lewes  be- 
came her  literary  agent  and  adviser,  jeal- 
ously guarding  her  every  interest,  and  so 
protecting  and  fostering  her  intellectual  life 
that  she  was  enabled  to  develop  it  under 
the  most  favorable  conditions.  This  inti- 
mate association  and  close  literary  friend- 
ship terminated  only  with  the  death  of  Mr. 
Lewes,  in  1878.  Mr.  Lewes  having  been 
unable  to  obtain  a  divorce  from  his  first, 
erring  wife,  the  union  between  the  philos- 
opher and  the  authoress  could  not  be  ren- 
dered legal  by  either  Church  or  State, 
though  it  was  sanctioned  by  the  approval 
and  good  wishes  of  a  large  circle  of  refined 
and  intelligent  personal  friends.  Not  a  few 
persons  are  disposed  to  regard  with  a 


134      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

lenient  eye  the  moral  vagaries  of  the  pos- 
sessors of  genius.  It  has  been  said  that 
"the  being  who  is  gifted  with  genius  does 
not  possess  it ;  it  possesses  him,  and  he  and 
we  have  to  pay  the  penalty."  But  nature  is 
a  stern  Nemesis,  and  every  false  position 
into  which  we  may  be  betrayed  involves  its 
own  sorrow  and  loss.  In  his  volume  en- 
titled My  Confidences  Frederick  Locker- 
Lampson  says: 

I  am  sure  that  she  [George  Eliot]  was  very  sensi- 
tive, and  must  have  had  many  a  painful  half  hour 
as  the  helpmate  of  Mr.  Lewes.  By  accepting  the  po- 
sition she  had  placed  herself  in  opposition  to  the 
moral  instincts  of  most  of  those  whom  she  held  most 
dear.  Though  intellectually  self-contained,  I  believe 
she  was  singularly  dependent  on  the  emotional  side 
of  her  nature.  With  her,  as  with  nearly  all  women, 
she  needed  a  something  to  lean  upon.  Though  her 
conduct  was  socially  indefensible,  it  would  have  been 
cruel,  it  would  be  stupid,  to  judge  her  exactly  as  one 
would  judge  an  ordinary  offender.  What  a  genius 
she  must  have  had  to  have  been  able  to  draw  so  many 
high-minded  people  to  her !  I  have  an  impression 
that  she  felt  her  position  acutely,  and  was  unhappy. 
George  Eliot  was  much  to  be  pitied. 

And  elsewhere  he  says  of  the  relation  of 
George  Eliot  and  Mr.  Lewes,  "He  was  ever 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      135 

on  the  alert  to  shield  her  from  worries  and 
annoyance,  and  keen  to  get  her  good  terms 
from  the  publishers,  but  somehow  it  seemed 
an  incongruous  partnership/' 

George  Eliot  was  a  passionate  admirer  of 
personal  beauty  in  either  man  or  woman,  as 
witness  her  descriptions  of  Hetty  Sorrel 
and  Tito  Melema.  Probably  this  was  the 
result  of  intense  consciousness  of  her  own 
deficiencies  in  respect  to  physical  comeli- 
ness. Locker-Lampson  again  writes: 

Nature  had  disguised  George  Eliot's  apparently 
stoical  yet  really  vehement  and  sensitive  spirit,  and 
her  soaring  genius,  in  a  homely  and  insignificant 
form.  Her  countenance  was  equine — she  was  rather 
like  a  horse,  and  her  head  had  been  intended  for  a 
much  larger  body ;  she  was  not  a  tall  woman.  She 
wore  her  hair  in  not  pleasing,  out-of-fashion  loops, 
coming  down  on  either  side  of  her  face,  so  hiding  her 
ears ;  her  garments  concealed  her  outline — they  gave 
her  a  waist  like  a  milestone.  You  will  see  her  at  her 
very  best  in  the  portrait  by  Sir  Frederick  Burton. 
To  my  mind  George  Eliot  was  a  plain  woman. 

Of  her  habits  of  conversation  the  same 
writer  observes : 

She  had  a  measured  way  of  conversing,  restrained 
but  impressive.  When  I  happened  to  call  she  was 


136      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

nearly  always  seated  in  the  chimney  corner  on  a  low 
chair,  and  she  bent  forward  when  she  spoke.  As 
she  often  discussed  abstract  subjects,  she  might  have 
been  thought  pedantic,  especially  as  her  language 
was  sprinkled  with  a  scientific  terminology ;  but  I 
do  not  think  she  was  a  bit  of  a  pedant.  Then, 
though  she  had  a  very  gentle  voice  and  manner,  there 
was  every  now  and  then  just  a  suspicion  of  meek 
satire  in  her  talk.  Her  sentences  unwound  them- 
selves very  neatly  and  completely,  leaving  the  im- 
pression of  past  reflection  and  present  readiness ; 
she  spoke  exceedingly  well,  but  not  with  all  the  sim- 
plicity and  verve,  the  happy  abandon  of  certain  prac- 
ticed women  of  the  world ;  however,  it  was  in  a  way 
that  was  far  more  interesting.  I  have  been  told  that 
she  was  most  agreeable  en  tete-a-tete  ;  that  when  sur- 
rounded by  admirers  she  was  apt  to  become  orator- 
ical— a  different  woman.  She  did  not  strike  me  as 
witty  or  markedly  humorous ;  she  was  too  much  in 
earnest.  She  spoke  as  if  with  a  sense  of  responsi- 
bility, and  one  cannot  be  exactly  captivating  when 
one's  doing  that. 

Of  the  poetry  of  George  Eliot  not  much 
needs  to  be  written,  though  curiously 
enough  she  herself  preferred  it  to  her  nov- 
els. It  is  pale  and  colorless,  as  compared 
with  the  iridescent  splendors  of  her  prose 
compositions.  Her  natural  mode  of  ex- 
pression was  not  in  verse.  While  much  of 
her  prose  is  essentially  poetical,  her  large 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      137 

powers  evidently  chafed  under  the  restraints 
and  limitations  imposed  by  metrical  laws 
and  the  exigencies  of  rhyme.  While  her 
patience  as  an  artist  was  long  and  deep,  she 
lacked  that  subtler  gift  or  instinct  which 
makes  the  poet  the  seer,  and  whereby  his 
utterances  are  forged  from  the  central  fires 
of  his  life.  "The  Legend  of  Jubal,"  "How 
Lisa  Loved  the  King,"  and  "The  Spanish 
Gypsy"  are  the  most  notable  of  her  poetical 
writings.  The  didactic  habit  of  her  mind 
quenched  the  singer's  sibylline  rage.  The 
following  stanzas  embody  her  nearest  ap- 
proach to  lyric  fire : 

Sweet  evenings  come  and  go,  love, 

They  came  and  went  of  yore ; 
This  evening  of  our  life,  love, 
Shall  go  and  come  no  more. 

When  we  have  passed  away,  love, 
All  things  will  keep  their  name; 

But  yet  no  life  on  earth,  love, 
With  ours  will  be  the  same. 

The  daisies  will  be  there,  love, 
The  stars  in  heaven  will  shine; 

I  shall  not  feel  thy  wish,  love, 
Nor  thou  my  hands  in  thine. 


138      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

A  better  time  will  come,  love, 

And  better  souls  be  born ; 
I  would  not  be  the  best,  love, 

To  leave  thee  now  forlorn. 

If  the  fame  of  George  Eliot  rested  upon 
her  poetry  alone  that  fame  to-day  would  be 
a  vanishing  quantity.  It  is  an  interesting 
psychological  question,  or  perhaps  a  ques- 
tion in  mental  pathology,  why  so  many 
great  writers,  unsatisfied  with  their  noble 
conquests  in  the  commoner  field  of  prose, 
like  good  Captain  Wegg,  "drop  into  poetry." 
The  examples  of  Macaulay,  Carlyle,  Rus- 
kin,  Charlotte  Bronte,  Charles  Lamb, 
Thackeray,  and,  more  recently,  Mr.  Glad- 
stone in  his  translations  from  Horace,  and 
Meredith  and  Hardy,  occur  at  once  as  cases 
in  point.  Probably  others  could  be  recalled 
with  a  little  effort  of  the  memory.  But  there 
is  one  brief  poem  from  the  pen  of  George 
Eliot  which  is  a  beautiful  and  dignified  com- 
position, worthy  the  inspired  muse  of  the 
most  gifted  of  the  tuneful  ilk.  These  lines 
have  been  quoted  frequently,  but  they  may 
be  introduced  here  as  constituting  the  best 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      139 

specimen  of  George  Eliot's  now   all-but- 
forgotten  verse: 

Oh  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence :  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved ; 
Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of  the  world, 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better— saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 
And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 


140      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love — 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  the  life  to  come, 

Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.     May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feel  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 


\     So 
Wt 


The  later  works  of  George  Eliot  were 
extremely  successful  in  a  pecuniary  way. 
She  received  but  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
for  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.  But  Middle- 
march  brought  her  forty  thousand  dollars, 
and  Daniel  Deronda  nearly  as  much  more. 
Only  one  other  female  author  has  rivaled 
George  Eliot  as  regards  financial  rewards 
of  her  work — Mrs.  Humphry  Ward. 

Upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Lewes,  after  a 
year  and  a  half  of  virtual  widowhood, 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      141 

George  Eliot  was  married  May  6,  1880,  at 
St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  London,  to 
Mr.  John  Walter  Cross.  Mr.  Cross  was 
much  younger  than  his  bride,  and  had  long 
been  a  valued  and  esteemed  friend  of  both 
herself  and  Mr.  Lewes.  Says  Locker- 
Lampson  of  the  new  union : 

George  Eliot's  more  transcendental  friends  never 
forgave  her  for  marrying.  In  a  morally  immoral 
manner  they  washed  their  virtuous  hands  of  her.  I 
could  not  help  thinking  it  was  the  most  natural  thing 
for  the  poor  woman  to  do.  She  was  a  heavily  laden 
but  interesting  derelict,  tossing  among  the  breakers, 
without  oars  or  rudder,  and  all  at  once  the  brave 
Cross  arrives,  throws  her  a  rope,  and  gallantly  tows 
her  into  harbor. 

A  little  more  than  seven  months  after 
her  marriage  with  Mr.  Cross,  George  Eliot 
passed  into  that  realm  where  Time  himself 
"shall  furl  his  wings  and  cease  to  be."  The 
funeral  of  Mr.  Lewes  had  been  held  in  the 
mortuary  chapel  in  Highgate  Cemetery, 
and  there  the  funeral  of  George  Eliot  was 
also  held.  It  was  a  day  of  snow  and  slush, 
and  a  bitter  wind  was  blowing,  "but  still," 

avers  an  eyewitness,  "there  was  a  remark- 
10 


142      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

able  gathering  from  all  parts  of  England." 
Of  her  burial  place  a  writer  in  the  London 
Chronicle  says: 

When  you  get  to  the  top  of  Swain's  Lane  you  see 
two  gates ;  take  the  one  on  the  right  and,  entering, 
keep  to  the  left.  The  path  sweeps  round  a  little  hil- 
lock, and  in  a  few  steps  you  see  in  front  of  you  a  great 
block  of  buildings.  This  is  St.  Pancras  Infirmary. 
You  keep  straight  on  until  you  come  to  the  last  turn- 
ing to  the  left;  take  that,  and  after  ten  yards  you 
come  on  a  plain  gray  granite  obelisk  and  pedestal, 
together  not  more  than  ten  feet  high.  Without  your 
attention  being  called  to  this  quiet  memorial,  amid  so 
many  elaborate  commemorations  of  sorrow,  you 
would  pass  it  unnoted.  But  stop  a  moment  and 
read.  This  is  what  you  see : 

"Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 
In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence." 


Here  lies  the  Body  of 

"George  Eliot," 

Mary  Ann   Cross, 

Born  22  November,  1819; 

Died  22  December,  1880. 

That  is  the  simple  yet  eloquent  inscription  cut  on 
the  granite  pedestal  in  severely  plain  letters  of  gold. 
The  Spartan  brevity  and  simplicity  of  it  is  in  keep- 
ing with  the  great  writer's  life  and  philosophy. 
And  the  inevitableness  of  the  "common  lot"  is  un- 
consciously emphasized  by  the  fact  that  on  her  right 
is  a  monument  more  ornate  than  her  own,  chron- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      143 

icling  the  death  of  an  unknown  family.  Here,  fac- 
ing the  east  and  the  rising  sun,  lie  the  ashes  of  one 
who  bore  a  proud  name  in  the  brilliant  roll  of  Eng- 
lish literature,  resting  after  a  busy  life  of  earnest 
purpose  and  much  great  work  accomplished.  Many 
may  regret  that  a  more  conspicuous,  a  more  elaborate 
monument  does  not  mark  the  Friedensheim  of  the 
author  of  Middlemarch,  Felix  Holt,  Adam  Bede,  and 
Romola.  These  have  to  be  reminded  that  George 
Elidt's  most  "enduring  brass'  is  to  be  found  in  her 
works  and  the  memory  of  her  life. 

There  are  not  a  few  reviewers  and  self- 
appointed  critics  who  persistently  talk  of 
some  one's  writing  the  great  American 
novel,  as  though  it  must  be  a  product  dif- 
fering in  kind  and  in  art  from  the  great 
novels  of  other  lands.  It  might  be  inter- 
esting to  know  just  what  these  persons 
mean  by  the  terms  they  employ — provided 
the  conception  is  clear  in  their  own  minds. 
Where  is  the  distinctively  great  English, 
French,  or  Russian  novel?  Neither  Tom 
Jones,  nor  Les  Miserables,  nor  Peace 
and  War  fulfill  the  requirments,  for  these 
are  not  and  could  not  be  sufficiently  inclu- 
sive to  portray  every  phase  of  the  life  and 
nationality  which  the  author  represented. 


144      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

So  if  George  Eliot  has  not  produced  a  work 
of  fiction  which  at  its  points  of  contact 
touch  every  side  of  English  civilization, 
within  her  own  field  she  has  displayed  a 
potentiality  rivalled  only  by  the  master 
novelists  of  the  world. 

The  attainments  of  George  Eliot  were 
remarkably  extensive.  She  was  a  classical 
scholar,  and  to  her  familiarity  with  the 
principal  modern  languages  she  added  an 
acquaintance  with  Russian  and  modern 
Greek.  She  was  widely  learned  in  the 
physical  sciences,  the  arts  and  philosophies, 
and  was  a  profound  student  in  the  history 
of  human  thought  and  investigation.  The 
peculiar  characteristics  of  her  mind  were 
acute  analysis,  unerring  perception  of  fit- 
ness and  relation,  a  luxuriant  but  chastened 
fancy,  and  a  rare  and  delightful  energy  of 
expression.  Her  style  is  a  compound  of 
classicism  and  didacticism,  of  scientific  tech- 
nicality and  broad  colloquialism.  Not  one 
of  her  countrywomen  of  this  or  any  former 
period,  excepting  Mrs.  Browning,  can  com- 
pare with  her  in  expressive  ability,  keen- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      145 

ness  of  discrimination,  and  forceful  and 
elegant  English.  Among  female  writers 
what  Mrs.  Browning  is  in  poetry  George 
Eliot  is  in  prose.  Though  not  so  much 
given  to  the  use  of  the  incisive  and  vig- 
orous Saxon  words  with  which  our  lan- 
guage abounds  as  Mrs.  Browning  was,  yet 
she  fully  equaled  her  in  knowledge  of  the 
delicate  shades  of  difference  in  nearly 
synonymous  terms,  while  she  easily  sur- 
passed her  in  methods  of  technical  utter- 
ance and  the  fullness  of  her  vocabulary. 
The  mantle  of  the  high-priestess  of  British 
novelists,  the  peeress  of  Dickens  and  Thack- 
eray, and  the  greatest  of  that  trio  of  great 
female  story  writers,  Jane  Austen,  Char- 
lotte Bronte,  and  George  Eliot,  lies  where 
she  dropped  it.  Who  shall  be  worthy  to 
wear  it  after  her? 


V 

DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI 

AND  HIS  SISTER 

CHRISTINA 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      149 


DANTE   GABRIEL    ROSSETTI   AND   HIS 
SISTER   CHRISTINA 

'To  one  who  believes  that  there  is  in  a 
name  some  mysterious  power  influencing 
the  destiny  of  a  human  being,  the  painter- 
poet,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  affords  an  ex- 
ample in  evidence.  Rossetti  himself  seems 
never  to  have  forgotten  the  fact  that  he 
bore  the  name  of  Italy's  greatest  bard.  The 
man  upon  whom  devolves  the  burden  of  an 
illustrious  name,  if  he  be  not  borne  down 
by  it  into  listless  despair,  may  be  aroused 
to  supreme  endeavors  to  live  up  to  the  ex- 
pectations of  the  friends  who  in  addressing 
him  involuntarily  recall- his  glorious  proto- 
type. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  was  a  remarkable 
member  of  a  remarkable  family.  Such  a 
group  of  children  as  Dante  Gabriel,  Wil- 
liam Michael,  and  Christina  G.  Rossetti  are 
seldom  found  in  the  same  household.  Even 


150      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

the  quiet,  claustral  spirit  of  the  elder  sister, 
Maria,  was  a  shrine  whence  the  clear-point- 
ed flame  of  genius  burned  heavenward, 
though  it  was  not  for  the  world's  curious 
gaze.  Rossetti's  father,  Gabriele  Rossetti, 
was  a  Neapolitan  political  refugee  resident 
in  London,  and  one  of  the  most  highly  es- 
teemed of  Italy's  recent  patriotic  poets. 
He  was  a  profound  and  lifelong  student  of 
Dante,  concerning  whose  works  he  cher- 
ished theories  peculiarly  his  own.  The 
mother  of  Dante  Rossetti  was  of  mixed 
English  and  Italian  parentage,  so  that  in 
the  veins  of  the  artist  there  was  more  Ital- 
ian than  English  blood. 

Gabriel  Charles  Dante  Rossetti,  known 
to  the  world  as  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  was 
born  May  12,  1828,  in  London.  He  was 
the  second  of  four  children,  Christina,  his 
sister,  being  the  youngest.  In  the  charac- 
teristics which  distinguished  Dante  Ros- 
setti, and  Christina  as  well,  were  included 
some  of  the  rarest  qualities  of  the  two  na- 
tionalities which  in  these  notable  lives  came 
to  their  confluence.  Dante  and  Christina 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      151 

were  both  scribblers  in  their  childhood, 
writing  stories  and  verses  successively,  the 
example  being  set  them  in  their  home  by 
their  tireless  father,  from  whose  pen  flowed 
poems  and  other  compositions  innumerable. 
Dante's  schooling  was  not  of  the  broadest 
kind,  though  when  he  left  King's  College 
in  the  summer  of  1842  he  was  reasonably 
well  acquainted  with  Sallust,  Ovid,  and 
Vergil,  knew  the  rudiments  of  Greek,  and 
could  read  easily  in  French. 

With  Rossetti's  peculiarities  and  skill  in 
the  art  of  painting  we  have  little  to  do  here, 
except  as  he  illustrated  the  Preraphaelite 
theories  of  art  by  his  brush  as  well  as  by 
his  verse.  Rossetti  is  better  known  as  a 
writer  than  as  a  painter,  since,  throughout 
his  entire  life,  he  was  averse  to  placing  his 
canvases  on  public  exhibition.  His  regular 
preparation  for  the  profession  of  painting 
was  of  brief  duration.  After  a  period  of 
study  at  Gary's  drawing  academy  he  was 
admitted  as  a  student  in  the  Antique  School 
of  the  Royal  Academy.  He  did  not  com- 
plete his  course  in  this  school,  rinding  it 


152      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

irksome  to  subject  himself  to  methods  pre- 
scribed by  others,  and  liking  always  to  do 
things  in  his  own  way.  As  the  head  of  the 
Preraphaelite  Brotherhood  he  displayed  a 
power  and  originality  in  his  art  work  which 
compelled  the  attention  of  connoisseurs  to 
the  fact  that  a  new  intellectual  force  had 
made  its  advent  among  them.  Ruskin  early 
became  one  of  Rossetti's  patrons,  so  that 
the  singular  endowments  of  the  young  art- 
ist are  beyond  question.  Notwithstanding 
the  present  tendency  to  belittle  the  so-called 
Preraphaelite  movement — and  Rossetti  him- 
self ere  his  death  seemed  to  think  lightly 
of  it — the  ability  of  such  men  as  Rossetti, 
Millais,  Holman  Hunt,  Woolner,  Col- 
linson,  and  Stephens  exerted  an  influence 
which  is  felt  at  this  very  day  in  the  world 
of  art. 

On  the  side  of  letters,  also,  it  is  no  slight 
proof  of  poetic  puissance  to  make  one's 
voice  heard  and  imitated  amid  the  babel 
of  minor  singers  ever  challenging  the  pub- 
lic ear.  Dante  Rossetti  early  and  easily 
rose  above  the  mass  of  bardlings  whose  par- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      153 

rotlike  repetitions  of  the  master's  manner 
might,  mauger  their  maddening  wearisome- 
ness,  be  regarded  as  the  sincerest  form  of 
flattery.  When  "The  Blessed  Damozel" 
appeared,  written  at  the  time  Rossetti  was 
in  his  nineteenth  year,  he  who  ran  might 
read  that  a  new  luminary,  brilliant  and 
unique,  had  risen  in  our  poetical  skies.  The 
extraordinary  symbolism  employed  by  this 
writer,  the  earthly  passion  projected  into 
spiritual  experiences,  the  human  longing 
surviving  amid  celestial  environments,  the 
sensuous,  almost  sensual,  beauty  breathing 
through  the  entire  poem,  set  its  author 
apart  as  a  real  and  distinct  energy  in  the 
literature  of  his  generation.  This  poem 
was  avowedly  written  to  be  the  counter- 
part of  Poe's  "Raven."  As  the  latter  poem 
depicts  from  the  earthly  viewpoint  the 
yearnings  of  bereaved  affection,  so  "The 
Blessed  Damozel"  portrays  the  same  emo- 
tions from  the  celestial  side.  Scattered 
through  this  poem  there  are  successive  lines 
and  stanzas  as  unforgetable  as  anything 
that  has  ever  been  written: 


154      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  heaven ; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 
With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 

The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 
Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 
Out  of  the  circling  charm ; 

Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 
The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 

And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 
Along  her  bended  arm. 

The  sun  was  gone  now ;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf. 

I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 
To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 

As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 
And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      155 

We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

Given  a  compound  of  Poe  and  Shelley 
and  Keats  and  Baudelaire  and  Vaughan, 
with  an  added  element  of  a  completely  novel 
personality  interfused  through  the  whole, 
and  you  have  a  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  In 
his  employment  of  parentheses  and  refrains 
Rossetti,  like  William  Morris,  sometimes 
irritates  his  readers  by  what  seem  to  be 
mere  affectations  and  mannerisms.  To  not 
a  few,  also,  Rossetti's  mysticism  is  far  from 
pleasant,  though  this,  be  it  said,  is  the  weird 
moonlight  flower  whose  roots  struck  into 
those  shadowy  deeps  where  lay  united,  not 
to  be  dissevered,  the  genius  and  the  life  of 
the  man.  Rossetti,  with  his  mysticism  elim- 
inated, would  have  been  another  and,  to 
one  reader  at  least,  a  less  pleasing  Rossetti 
than  the  poet  whom  we  know  and  have 
learned  to  love. 

Let  it  not  for  a  moment  be  supposed  that 


156      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Rossetti's  mystical  tendencies  froze  within 
his  bosom  the  kindly  stream  of  human  in- 
terest and  fellowship.  His  heart  ever  beat 
in  tune  with  the  pulsations  that  stirred  the 
common  heart  of  the  world.  He  was  an 
admirer  and  defender  of  Robert  Browning 
while  as  yet  that  great  poet  was  generally 
unknown  or  was  mentioned  only  in  terms 
of  ridicule  and  jest.  He  was  characterized 
by  a  quick  and  generous  appreciation  of 
ability  in  others,  and  always  stood  ready  in 
every  possible  manner  to  encourage  strug- 
gling talent.  Philip  Bourke  Marston,  the 
blind  poet,  Oliver  Madox  Brown,  our  own 
Walt  Whitman,  and  others  shared  the  help- 
ful interest  which  he  manifested  in  his  fel- 
lows of  the  pen  and  the  palette.  Rossetti 
preserved  not  a  little  of  his  boyish  relish 
for  fun  nearly  to  the  close  of  his  life.  In 
1874  he  writes  to  his  brother  William :  "At 
present  I  am  going  about  with  a  black  patch 
over  my  nose.  Last  night  Jenny  fille  and 
I  agreed  to  shriek  at  the  same  moment,  one 
'Crupy'  and  the  other  'Crawly/  in  Dizzy's 
[the  dog's]  two  ears,  while  May  beat  a 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      157 

tattoo  on  the  top  of  his  head.  The  instant 
result  was  that  he  turned  round  howling 
and  bit  me — fortunately  not  Jenny — across 
the  nose,  at  which  I  am  not  surprised."  A 
warm,  full-blooded,  abundant  humanita- 
rianism  flows  through  many  of  Rossetti's 
lines,  notably  the  poem  entitled  "Jenny>" 
-written  before  the  poet  had  attained  his 
majority,  than  which  no  more  simple,  nat- 
ural, broadly  philosophic  production  in 
verse,  and  none  more  fully  embodying  the 
spirit  of  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  First  Cor- 
inthians, has  been  published  within  the  pres- 
ent century.  This  poem  enters  into  the  dis- 
cussion of  a  subject  which  few  writers  of 
prose  or  poetry  would  dare  or  care  to  un- 
dertake, namely,  a  courtesan  who  receives 
the  visit  of  a  man  by  night  and  who  falls 
asleep  upon  his  knee,  thus  arousing  within 
him  through  "dead,  unhappy  hours"  of 
watching  reflections  painful  and  pitiful  to 
the  last  degree.  The  delicacy,  the  strength, 
the  certainty  of  touch,  the  exquisite  loveli- 
ness of  this  poem  are  beyond  praise.  Here, 

too,  are  memorable  couplets,  the  grace,  per- 
il 


158      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

fume,  and  unexpectedness  of  which  are  like 
early  violets  in  the  young  grass: 

Poor  handful  of  bright  spring  water 
Flung  in  the  whirlpool's  shrieking  face. 

But  must  your  roses  die,  and  those 
Their  purpled  buds  that  should  unclose? 
Even  so ;  the  leaves  are  curled  apart, 
Still  red  as  from  the  broken  heart, 
And  here's  the  naked  stem  of  thorns. 

The  cold  lamps  at  the  pavement's  edge 
Wind  on  together  and  apart, 
A  fiery  serpent  for  your  heart. 

Like  a  toad  within  a  stone 

Seated  while  time  crumbles  on ; 

Which  sits  there  since  the  earth  was  cursed 

For  man's  transgression  at  the  first; 

Which,  living  through  all  centuries, 

Not  once  has  seen  the  sun  arise ; 

Whose  life,  to  its  cold  circle  charmed, 

The  earth's  whole  summers  have  not  warmed ; 

Which  always — whitherso  the  stone 

Be  flung — sits  there,  deaf,  blind,  alone ; — 

Aye,  and  shall  not  be  driven  out 

Till  that  which  shuts  him  round  about 

Break  at  the  very  Master's  stroke, 

And  the  dust  thereof  vanish  as  smoke, 

And  the  seed  of  man  vanish  as  dust — 

Even  so  within  the  world  is  lust. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      159 

As  a  writer  of  sonnets  Dante  Rossetti  is 
well-nigh  unequaled.  Some  of  his  sonnets 
written  for  pictures  are  nearly  unapproach- 
able in  excellence,  while  the  sonnet-se- 
quence entitled  "The  House  of  Life"  sur- 
passes in  richness,  variety,  and  abounding 
vitality  any  other  sonnet-sequence  whatso- 
ever, not  excepting  the  "  Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese."  Like  a  cleft  pomegranate, 
this  red-veined  fruit  of  a  fertile  life,  opened 
anywhere,  shows  the  crimson  heart  within 
as  the  heart  of  a  man.  What  treasures  were 
buried  from  mortal  delight  in  the  poems  in- 
terred in  the  same  grave  with  the  poet's 
dead  wife,  and  afterward  exhumed,  these 
sonnets  of  "The  House  of  Life"  may  reveal. 
Here  is  one,  under  the  caption  "Broken 
Music:" 

The  mother  will  not  turn,  who  thinks  she  hears 
Her  nursling's  speech  first  grow  articulate ; 
But  breathless,  with  averted  eyes  elate, 
She  sits,  with  open  lips,  and  open  ears, 
That  it  may  call  her  twice.     'Mid  doubts  and  fears 
Thus  oft  my  soul  has  hearkened ;  till  the  song, 
A  central  moan  for  days,  at  length  found  tongue, 
And  the  sweet  music  welled  and  the  sweet  tears. 


160      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

But  now,  whatever  while  the  soul  is  fain 

To  list  that  wonted  murmur,  as  it  were 

The      speech-bound      seashell's     low,      importunate 

strains — 

No  breath  of  song,  thy  voice  alone  is  there, 
O  bitterly  beloved !  and  all  her  gain 
Is  but  the  pang  of  unpermitted  prayer. 

The  manner  in  which  Dante  Rossetti 
formed  the  acquaintance  of  Miss  Elizabeth 
Eleanor  Siddal,  the  lady  who  afterward 
became  his  wife,  is  sufficiently  romantic. 
Walter  Howell  Deverell,  a  young  painter 
much  liked,  though  not  a  member  of  the 
Preraphaelite  Brotherhood,  one  day  accom- 
panied his  mother  to  a  bonnet  shop  in  Cran- 
borne  Alley,  and  among  the  shop  assistants 
saw  a  young  woman  handing  down  a  band- 
box. She  was  very  beautiful,  tall,  finely 
molded,  with  a  lofty  neck  and  a  wealth  of 
coppery,  golden  hair.  Deverell  obtained 
the  privilege  of  sittings  from  this  lovely 
model,  whom  Rossetti  soon  after  saw,  ad- 
mired, loved,  and  to  whom  he  became  en- 
gaged to  be  married.  Miss  Siddal  herself 
developed  artistic  talents  of  no  mean  order. 
Of  her  Rossetti  said :  "Her  fecundity  of  in- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      161 

vention  and  facility  are  quite  wonderful — 
much  greater  than  mine."  The  single  pub- 
lished specimen  of  her  verses  is  very  far 
from  discreditable  to  her  skill  in  this  direc- 
tion. "Guggum,"  "Guggums,"  and  "Gug" 
seem  to  have  been  the  whimsical,  and  not 
very  euphonious,  pet  names  which  Rossetti 
applied  to  his  fair  one.  Miss  Siddal's  health 
was  extremely  delicate,  and  she  died  of  an 
overdose  of  laudanum  in  less  than  two  years 
after  her  marriage  with  Rossetti  in  1860. 

It  appears  to  be  a  well-established  fact 
that  from  the  year  1872  until  the  close  of 
his  life,  in  1882,  Rossetti  was  mentally  un- 
balanced. The  excessive  use  of  chloral  and 
whisky  was  probably  contributory  to,  if  it 
did  not  produce,  this  deplorable  result.  In 
the  Contemporary  Review  for  October, 
1871,  an  article  was  published  under  the 
caption  "The  Fleshly  School  of  Poetry— 
Mr.  D.  G.  Rossetti."  The  article  was  signed 
by  one  Thomas  Maitland.  Not  long  there- 
after it  came  to  the  knowledge  of  Rossetti 
that  Thomas  Maitland  was  none  other  than 
Mr.  Robert  Buchanan,  the  English  poet, 


162      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

novelist,  and  essayist.  The  critique  was 
unduly  severe,  and  to  Rossetti  probably  un- 
just. Mr.  Buchanan  has  since  retracted 
the  strictures  contained  in  the  article,  and 
in  a  manly  way  has  expressed  his  high  ap- 
preciation of  Rossetti's  work.  But  such  was 
the  mental  and  physical  distemper  of  the 
unhappy  artist  that,  upon  the  publication 
of  Mr.  Buchanan's  criticism,  his  mental 
equilibrium  was  upset,  and  it  was  never 
again  wholly  restored.  For  years  he  was 
subject  to  delusions  of  the  most  painful 
character.  Old  friends  were  regarded  as 
united  in  a  conspiracy  against  him,  and 
even  strangers  were  accused  of  intentionally 
insulting  him.  When  Mr.  Browning's 
"Fifine  at  the  Fair"  was  published  Rossetti 
at  once  seized  upon  certain  lines  toward  the 
close  of  the  poem  as  containing  a  covert, 
but  spiteful,  attack  upon  himself.  Mr. 
Dodgson  (Lewis  Carroll)  wrote  a  nonsen- 
sical poem  entitled  "The  Hunting  of  the 
Snark."  This  Rossetti  also  declared  to  be 
a  pasquinade  directed  against  his  fair  fame. 
Again,  while  at  Broadlands,  a  friend's  seat 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      163 

in  Hampshire,  Rossetti  one  day  became 
greatly  excited  at  a  thrush  singing  in  a 
neighboring  garden,  fancying  that  the  bird 
had  been  trained  by  the  enemies  of  his 
peace  to  "ejaculate  something  insulting  to 
him."  On  still  another  occasion  he  sud- 
denly left  Kelmscott,  where  he  had  been 
sojourning  for  a  season,  having  plunged 
into  a  quarrel  with  some  anglers  by  the 
river,  conceiving  them  to  have  uttered 
something  derogatory  to  him.  Yet  through 
all  this  dark  period  he  continued  to  paint 
and  write  with  even  more  than  his  former 
skill  and  industry. 

Rossetti's  home  for  many  years  was  at 
Tudor  House,  Chelsea.  Here  dwelt  with 
him  at  one  time  Swinburne  and  George 
Meredith,  and  at  a  later  date  Hall  Caine. 
Here,  also,  Rossetti  gathered  about  him 
much  old  furniture  and  crockery,  inaugu- 
rating the  fashion  of  collecting  bric-a-brac 
which  so  generally  prevailed  a  few  years 
ago.  One  charming  trait  of  Rossetti's 
character  appears  in  the  tender  and  thought- 
ful affection  which  he  ever  cherished  toward 


164      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

his  mother.  In  his  beautifully  filial  letters 
to  her  he  again  and  again  addresses  her  as 
"My  Dearest  Mother,"  and  sometimes  by 
the  absurdly  affectionate  titles  of  "Teaksi- 
cunculum"  and  "Darling  Teaksicum."  He 
closes  one  epistle  to  his  mother  thus :  "Take 
care  of  your  dear,  funny  old  self,  and  be- 
lieve me  your  most  loving  son." 

Rossetti's  grave  is  at  Birchington-on- 
Sea,  where  he  closed  his  eyes  on  this  world 
April  9,  1882.  The  tombstone,  which  is  an 
Irish  cross,  was  designed  by  Madox  Brown. 
The  inscription,  written  by  William  Michael 
Rossetti,  is  as  follows: 

Here  sleeps  Gabriel  Charles  Dante  Rossetti,  hon- 
ored, under  the  name  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti, 
among  painters  as  a  painter,  and  among  poets  as  a 
poet.  Born  in  London,  of  parentage  mainly  Italian, 
12  May,  1828.  Died  at  Birchington,  9  April,  1882. 
This  cruciform  monument,  bespoken  by  Dante  Ros- 
setti's mother,  was  designed  by  his  lifelong  friend 
Ford  Madox  Brown,  executed  by  J.  and  H.  Patte- 
son,  and  erected  by  his  brother  William  and  sister 
Christina. 

The  world,  so  tardy  to  recognize,  so  slow 
to  remember,  its  flame-winged  ministers  of 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      165 

song,  will  not  consent  to  forget  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti.  His  clayey  form  has 
melted  from  human  sight  like  a  mist-born 
vision  of  the  morning,  but  the  breath  of  his 
genius  still  lingers  to  awaken  music  in  rare 
and  sensitive  souls,  as  the  wind  murmurs 
through  an  ^Eolian  harp.  His  memory 
shall  not  be  as  his  own  dissolving  image, 
of  which  he  sang  in  "Love's  Nocturn:" 

Like  a  vapor  wan  and  mute, 

Like  a  flame,  so  let  it  pass ; 
One  low  sigh  across  her  lute, 

One  dull  breath  against  her  glass  ; 

And  to  my  sad  soul,  alas ! 
One  salute 

Cold  as  when  death's  foot  shall  pass. 

No  student  of  letters  will  need  to  be 
warned  that  popularity  is  not  a  test  of  ex- 
cellence in  the  literary  realm.  Whatever 
may  be  said  to  the  contrary,  and  however 
impotent  we  may  be  to  define  it  in  authen- 
tic terms,  there  is  a  recognized  and  perma- 
nent standard  of  taste  and  of  ethics.  To  it 
is  always  made  an  unconscious  appeal,  for 
it  is  the  product  of  genius  striving  to  attain 


166      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

the  ultimate  ideals.  Few  or  none  who  write 
for  the  applause  of  the  current  hour  are 
likely  to  achieve  this  standard.  Perhaps 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  in  their  own 
day  the  books  which  become  classics  sel- 
dom challenge  the  attention  of  the  multi- 
tudes. 

In  the  poetry  of  Christina  G.  Rossetti 
may  be  clearly  traced  the  austere  beauty 
of  a  chaste  and  nun-like  spirit.  The  poems 
of  the  brother  and  of  the  sister  have  very 
little  in  common  except  an  underlying  seri- 
ousness of  purpose  and  an  almost  fastidious 
sense  of  melody.  Christina's  verse  may  be 
said  to  uniformly  express  the  conflicts,  the 
longings,  and  the  aspirations  of  a  deeply 
religious  mind.  Her  treatment  of  pietistic 
themes  is  all  her  own,  and  it  is  astonishing 
what  a  varied  music  she  is  able  to  produce 
upon  a  single  string.  It  cannot  be  doubted 
that,  upon  the  whole,  the  sister's  outlook 
upon  life  was  saner  than  that  of  the  brother, 
whose  latter  years  were  so  sadly  clouded  by 
mental  infirmity. 

When,  a  few  years  ago,  the  voice  of  Chris- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      167 

tina  Rossetti  sank  into  the  hush  of  death, 
England  lost  her  sweetest  songstress  since 
Mrs.  Browning  sent  up  her  swan-notes  be- 
neath Italian  skies.  Undoubtedly  the  con- 
tact into  which  Christina  was  brought  with 
the  clever  young  men  who  were  the  asso- 
ciates of  her  brothers,  as  recorded  in  the 
two  goodly  volumes  containing  the  memoir 
and  family  letters  of  Dante  Rossetti,  aided 
her  not  a  little  in  the  development  of  her 
intellectual  life.  She  seemed  easily  to  com- 
mand all  the  melodious  resources  of  which 
our  language  is  capable.  "Goblin  Market" 
is  a  bizarre  fantasy  wrought  out  with  ut- 
most adroitness,  the  lesson  of  which  seems 
to  be  contained  in  the  closing  lines: 

For  there  is  no  friend  like  a  sister, 
In  calm  or  stormy  weather, 
To  cheer  one  on  the  tedious  way, 
To  fetch  one  if  one  goes  astray, 
To  lift  one  if  one  totters  down, 
To  strengthen  whilst  one  stands. 

But  it  is  in  her  lyrics  that  she  is  pre- 
eminent. The  dewy  freshness  and  simplici- 
ty of  such  a  song  as  that  beginning, 


i68      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

My  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 
Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot, 

well  illustrate  the  lark-like  quality  of  Miss 
Rossetti's  notes.  "Another  Spring,"  and 
the  song  "When  I  Am  Dead,  My  Dearest," 
are  all  but  flawless  in  their  way.  How  sweet 
and  graceful  are  her  strains  the  last  men- 
tioned lyric  well  attests: 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  song  for  me ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet ; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain : 
And,  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 

Miss  Rossetti's  devotional  pieces  are  shot 
through  and  through  with  the  lovely  fancies 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      169 

and  exalted  symbolisms  of  the  genuine  poet. 
Unlike  most  religious  verse,  hers  is  lifted 
far  above  the  dreariness  and  commonplaces 
of  mediocrity.  Her  own  intense  individu- 
ality informs  every  stanza,  almost  every 
line.  Here  is  a  brief  poem  entitled  "Weary 
in  Well-doing:" 

I  would  have  gone ;  God  bade  me  stay  : 
I  would  have  worked ;  God  bade  me  rest. 

He  broke  my  will  from  day  to  day, 
He  read  my  yearnings  unexpressed, 
And  said  them  nay. 

Now  I  would  stay  ;  God  bids  me  go : 
Now  I  would  rest ;  God  bids  me  work. 

He  breaks  my  heart  tossed  to  and  fro, 
My  soul  is  wrung  with  doubts  that  lurk 
And  vex  it  so. 

I  go,  Lord,  where  thou  sendest  me; 

Day  after  day  I  plod  and  moil : 
But,  Christ  my  God,  when  will  it  be 

That  I  may  let  alone  my  toil, 
And  rest  with  thee? 

In  the  Preface  to  the  recent  volume,  New 
Poems  by  Christina  Rossetti,  her  brother, 
William  Michael  Rossetti,  has  recorded  the 
curious  fact  that,  notwithstanding  the  inti- 


i;o      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

macy  of  their  home  life  and  the  large 
amount  of  verse  which  Christina  has  left 
to  the  world,  he  never  saw  his  sister  in  the 
act  of  composition. 

These  observations  concerning  this  song- 
ful twain  may  not  be  further  prolonged. 
They  lived  and  sang  through  their  allotted 
years,  and  their  songs  are  yet  with  us.  Let 
us  be  grateful  for  them.  Now  that  the 
singers  are  beyond  the  reach  of  human 
blame  or  blessing,  hands  are  not  lacking  to 
weave  chaplets  of  praise  wherewith  to 
adorn  their  tombs.  Slow,  too  slow,  is  this 
old  world  to  learn  the  oft-repeated  lesson 
that  the  words  of  panegyric  uttered  above 
unconscious  dust  are  as  idle  and  ineffectual 
as  the  wind  that  bears  them  away.  If  the 
dead  could  be  reached  by  the  joys  or  sor- 
rows of  the  living,  many  a  heart  misjudged 
and  broken,  which,  despairing,  has  ceased 
to  beat,  would,  amid  its  solemn  shadows, 
be  filled  with  gladness  and  perpetual  peace. 
Let  us  hope  that  the  following  sonnet,  one 
of  Miss  Rossetti's  best,  may  not  be  alto- 
gether wide  of  a  precious  possibility: 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      171 

The  curtains  were  half  drawn,  the  floor  was  swept 
And  strewn  with  rushes,  rosemary  and  may 
Lay  thick  upon  the  bed  on  which  I  lay, 

Where  through  the  lattice  ivy-shadows  crept. 

He  leaned  above  me,  thinking  that  I  slept 
And  could  not  hear  him ;  but  I  heard  him  say, 
"Poor  child,  poor  child !"  and  as  he  turned  away 

Came  a  deep  silence,  and  I  knew  he  wept. 

He  did  not  touch  the  shroud,  or  raise  the  fold 
That  hid  my  face,  or  take  my  hand  in  his, 
Or  ruffle  the  smooth  pillows  for  my  head : 
He  did  not  love  me  living ;  but  once  dead 
He  pitied  me ;  and  very  sweet  it  is 

To  know  he  still  is  warm,  though  I  am  cold. 


VI 

THE    CORRESPONDENCE    OF 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

12 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      175 


VI 

THE     CORRESPONDENCE     OF     JAMES 
RUSSELL    LOWELL 

IT  has  been  said  that  the  days  of  the  art 
of  letter  writing  are  forever  past;  that  the 
telephone,  the  telegraph,  the  typewriter, 
and  the  modern  newspaper  have  reduced 
the  epistles  that  pass  between  friends  to 
the  exchange  of  the  merest  conventional 
civilities.  In  these  strenuous  and  rushing 
years  little  opportunity  is  found  to  enjoy 
the  pleasant  and  gossipy  leisureliness  of  the 
old-time  letter  writers.  The  letters  of  Cow- 
per,  of  Dean  Swift,  of  Keats,  of  Landor,  of 
Carlyle,  and  his  brilliant  wife,  of  Emerson, 
of  the  two  Brownings,  and,  we  might  add, 
of  R.  L.  Stevenson  will  never  be  duplicated, 
because  tevnpora  mutantur,  et  nos  tnutamur 
in  illis.  And  yet,  down  to  the  very  year  of 
his  death,  the  letters  of  Lowell  were  the 
same  delightful,  lucid,  and  witty  expres- 
sions of  a  charming  personality.  In  them 


176      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

are  quaint  bits  of  observation,  wise  and  in- 
cisive comments  upon  men  and  things,  sud- 
den revelations  of  a  heart  overflowing  with 
love,  passages  as  bright  with  humor  as  any- 
thing that  appears  in  the  Moosehead  Jour- 
nal, erudite  allusions,  and  quotations  from 
the  most  diverse  sources,  until  it  would 
seem  that  the  advent  of  one  of  these  letters 
must  have  been  marked  as  an  important 
event  in  the  experience  of  the  recipient. 

James  Russell  Lowell  first  opened  his 
eyes  to  the  light  of  the  natural  sun  in  Cam- 
bridge, Mass.,  on  February  22,  1819,  a  day 
noted  in  the  calendar  of  American  patriot- 
ism as  the  one  made  memorable  by  the 
nativity  of  the  immortal  Washington.  Low- 
ell was  most  fortunate  in  his  antecedents. 
His  father  was  a  cultured  clergyman,  a 
lover  of  books  and  of  the  benign  and  beau- 
tiful things  of  life.  The  poet's  mother  was 
of  an  ancient  Orkney  family,  and  through 
her  were  filtered  into  the  blood  of  the  son 
the  solitude  and  romantic  mystery  of  those 
northern  islands.  Lowell's  early  home  was 
such  as  would  foster  the  poetic  instincts  of 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      177 

a  child.  Elmwood,  a  product  of  colonial 
times,  stood  in  the  midst  of  lawn  and  gar- 
den, orchard  and  English  elms.  It  was  a 
roomy  old-fashioned  house,  rising  amid  its 
rural  surroundings,  with  an  air  of  quiet 
respectability  all  its  own.  There  were  five 
other  children  in  the  Lowell  household, 
three  brothers  and  two  sisters,  all  older 
than  the  poet.  He  was  an  ardent  little  fel- 
low, loving  boyish  pastimes,  and  was  happy 
and  healthy  in  affections  and  temperament 
as  a  boy  should  be.  We  may  obtain  a 
glimpse  of  his  joyous  childhood  from  the 
following  letter  to  his  brother  Robert,  writ- 
ten seventy-one  years  ago: 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER, — I  am  now  going  to  tell  you 
melancholy  news.  I  have  got  the  ague  together 
with  a  gumbile.  I  presume  you  know  that  September 
has  got  a  lame  leg,  but  he  grows  better  every  day  and 
now  is  very  well  but  still  limps  a  little.  We  have  a 
new  scholar  from  round  hill,  his  name  is  Hooper 
and  we  expect  another  named  Penn  who  I  believe 
also  comes  from  there.  The  boys  are  all  very  well 
except  Nemaise,  who  has  got  another  piece  of  glass 
in  his  leg  and  is  waiting  for  the  doctor  to  take  it 
out,  and  Samuel  Storrow  is  also  sick.  I  am  going  to 
have  a  new  suit  of  blue  broadcloth  clothes  to  wear 


i/8      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

every  day  and  to  play  in.  Mother  tells  me  that  I 
may  have  any  sort  of  buttons  I  choose.  I  have  not 
done  anything  to  the  hut  but  if  you  wish  I  will.  I 
am  now  very  happy ;  but  I  should  be  more  so  if  you 
were  there.  I  hope  you  will  answer  my  letter  if 
you  do  not  I  shall  write  you  no  more  letters,  when 
you  write  my  letters  you  must  direct  them  all  to  me 
and  not  write  half  to  mother  as  generally  do.  Moth- 
er has  given  me  three  volumes  of  tales  of  a  grand- 
father. 

farewell  Yours  truly 

JAMES  R.  LOWELL. 

You  must  excuse  me  for  making  so  many  mistakes. 
You  must  keep  what  I  have  told  you  about  my  new 
clothes  a  secret  if  you  dont  I  shall  not  divulge  any 
more  secrets  to  you.  I  have  got  quite  a  library. 
The  Master  has  not  taken  his  rattan  out  since  the 
vacation.  Your  little  kitten  is  as  well  and  as  playful 
as  ever  and  I  hope  you  are  to  for  I  am  sure  I  love 
you  as  well  as  ever.  Why  is  grass  like  a  mouse  you 
cant  guess  that  he  he  he  ho  ho  ho  ha  ha  ha  hum  hum 
hum. 

Lowell  matriculated  at  Harvard  as  a 
freshman,  when  he  was  fifteen  years  of  age. 
Although  somewhat  diffident,  he  made 
friends  among  his  classmates,  and  found 
much  enjoyment  in  his  college  days.  In 
a  letter  written  to  W.  H.  Shackford,  in 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      179 

1836,  the  critical  habit  of  Lowell's  mind 
already  begins  to  appear.    He  says : 

I  am  reading  the  life  of  Milton,  and  find  it  very 
interesting ;  his  first  taste  (as  well  as  Cowley's)  for 
poetry  was  formed  by  reading  Spenser.  I  am  glad 
to  have  such  good  examples,  for  Spenser  was  al- 
ways my  favorite  poet.  I  like  the  meter  of  the 
"Faerie  Queene ;"  Beattie's  "Minstrel"  is  in  the 
same.  Apropos  of  poetry,  I  myself  (you  need  not 
turn  up  your  nose  and  grin) — yes,  I  myself  have  cul- 
tivated the  muses,  and  have  translated  one  or  two 
odes  from  Horace,  your  favorite  Horace.  I  like 
Horace  much,  but  prefer  Virgil's  "Bucolics"  to  his 
"Odes,"  most  of  them.  If  you  have  your  Horace  by 
you,  turn  to  the  IXth  Satire,  ist  Book,  and  read  it, 
and  see  if  you  don't  like  it  (in  an  expurgated  edi- 
tion). 

In  a  letter  to  G.  B.  Loring,  written  in 
the  same  year  as  the  foregoing,  we  have  an- 
other allusion  to  the  fact  that  he  has  begun 
the  writing  of  poetry: 

Here  I  am,  alone  in  Bob's  room  with  a  blazing  fire, 
in  an  atmosphere  of  "poesy"  and  soft-coal  smoke. 
Hope,  Dante,  a  few  of  the  older  English  poets,  By- 
ron, and  last,  not  least,  some  of  my  own  composi- 
tions, lie  around  me.  Mark  my  modesty.  I  don't 
put  myself  in  the  same  line  with  the  rest,  you  see. 


i8o      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Writing  to  W.  H.  Shackford  the  follow- 
ing year,  he  gives  apparently  the  first  inti- 
mation of  what  his  pursuit  in  life  shall  be : 
"I  thought  your  brother  Charles  was  study- 
ing law.  I  intend  to  study  that  myself,  and 
probably  shall  be  Chief  Justice  of  the 
United  States." 

That  dominant  love  for  the  home  of  his 
birth  and  childhood,  which  made  Lowell 
cling  to  Elmwood  to  the  closing  day  of  his 
life,  he  expresses  in  another  letter  to  Lor- 
ing,  penned  April  5,  1837: 

To  revisit  the  home  of  one's  childhood  has  much 
of  joy,  but  it  is  a  joy  mingled  with  sadness.  To 
think  how  soon  those  flowers  that  have  bloomed, 
those  fields  that  have  smiled,  and  those  trees  that 
have  so  often  arrayed  themselves  in  "summer's  garb" 
for  you,  may  bloom  and  smile  and  array  themselves 
for  another !  You  may  think  me  a  fool  to  talk  in 
such  a  moralizing  strain,  but,  George,  I  have  lately 
talked  less  and  thought  more.  I  mean  to  read  next 
term,  if  possible,  a  chapter  in  my  Bible  every  night. 

The  increasingly  studious  habits  of  his 
mind  and  that  bonhomie  which  were  charac- 
teristic of  Lowell  throughout  his  later  life 
are  now  (1837)  well  defined. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      181 

I  am  busy  as  a  bee — almost.  I  study  and  read  and 
write  all  the  time.  I  have  laid  my  hands  on  a  very 
pretty  edition  of  Cowper,  which  I  intend  to  keep. 
In  two  volumes  I  have  also  "pinned"  some  letters 
relating  to  myself  in  my  early  childhood,  by  which 
it  seems  I  was  a  miracle  of  a  boy  for  sweetness  of 
temper.  "Credite  posteri!"  I  believe  I  was,  al- 
though perhaps  you  would  not  think  it  now. 

Already,  in  this  same  year,  he  begins  to 
find  himself  able  to  express  his  intense  love 
of  nature: 

You  can't  imagine  how  delightful  it  is  out  here. 
The  greatest  multitude  of  birds  of  every  description 
that  I  ever  recollect  to  have  seen.  The  grass  is  fast 
growing  green  under  the  kind  sun  of  spring — that  is, 
in  southerly  aspects.  Every  day  that  the  sun  shines 
I  take  my  book  and  go  out  to  a  bank  in  our  garden, 
and  lie  and  read.  'Tis  almost  as  pleasant  as 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell. 
.  .  .  The  birds  now  sing  loudest,  and  the  fowling 
piece  breaks  "the  quiet  of  the  scene"  less  often  than 
at  any  other  time.  Besides,  'tis  beautiful  to  watch 
the  different  steps  of  nature's  toilet,  as  she  arrays 
herself  in  the  flowery  dress  of  Spring.  It  almost 
seems  as  if  one  could  see  the  grass  grow  green. 
Then,  too,  the  sky  is  so  clear. 

Years  after  this  expression  of  his  love 
for  nature,  Lowell  wrote  in  the  same  spirit 
as  follows: 


182      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

The  older  I  grow  the  more  I  am  convinced  that 
there  are  no  satisfactions  so  deep  and  so  permanent 
as  our  sympathies  with  outward  nature.  I  have  not 
said  just  what  I  meant,  for  we  are  thrilled  even  more 
by  any  spectacle  of  human  heroism.  But  the  others 
seem  to  bind  our  lives  together  by  a  more  visible  and 
unbroken  chain  of  purifying  and  softening  emotion. 
In  this  way  the  flowering  of  the  buttercups  is  always 
a  great,  and  I  may  truly  say  religious,  event  in  my 
year.  .  .  .  There  never  was  such  a  season,  if  one  only 
did  not  have  to  lecture  and  write  articles.  There 
never  is  such  a  season,  and  that  shows  what  a  poet 
God  is.  He  says  the  same  thing  over  to  us  so  often, 
and  always  new.  Here  I've  been  reading  the  same 
poem  for  nearly  half  a  century,  and  never  had  a  no- 
tion what  the  buttercups  in  the  third  stanza  meant 
before.  But  I  won't  tell. 

In  one  of  his  early  letters,  written  while 
he  is  rusticating  in  Concord  for  having 
neglected  certain  studies  of  the  college  cur- 
riculum, he  thus  mentions  Thoreau :  "I  met 
Thoreau  last  night,  and  it  is  exquisitely 
amusing  to  see  how  he  imitates  Emerson's 
tone  and  manner.  With  my  eyes  shut,  I 
shouldn't  know  them  apart." 

The  decidedly  poetical  bias  of  Lowell's 
nature  is  now  clearly  apparent.  "I  have 
been  reading  the  first  volume  of  Carlyle's 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      183 

Miscellanies,"  he  writes.  "One  article,  that 
on  Burns,  is  worth  all  the  rest  to  me.  I 
like,  too,  the  one  on  German  playwrights. 
There  are  fine  passages  in  all."  About  this 
time  there  was  some  thought  upon  the  part 
of  the  poet  of  entering  a  divinity  school, 
that  he  might  prepare  himself  for  the  min- 
istry. He  seems  to  have  been  possessed  of 
very  distinct  notions  with  regard  to  a 
clergyman's  condition  as  related  to  his 
work,  and  reached  the  conclusion  that  he 
was  not  adapted  to  the  minister's  vocation. 
He  says: 

No  man  ought  to  be  a  minister  who  has  not  a 
special  calling  that  way.  I  don't  mean  an  old-fash- 
ioned special  calling,  with  winged  angels  and  fat- 
bottomed  cherubs,  but  an  inward  one.  In  fact,  I 
think  that  no  man  ought  to  be  a  minister  who  has 
not  money  enough  to  support  him  besides  his  salary. 
For  the  minister  of  God  should  not  be  thinking  of 
his  own  and  children's  bread,  when  dispensing  the 
bread  of  life.  I  have  been  led  to  reflect  seriously  on 
the  subject  since  I  have  thought  of  going  into  the 
divinity  school.  Some  men  were  made  for  peace- 
makers and  others  for  shoemakers,  and  if  each  man 
follow  his  nose  we  shall  come  out  right  at  last.  If 
I  did  not  think  that  I  should  some  day  make  a  great 
fool  of  myself  and  marry  (not  that  I  would  call  all 


184      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

men  fools  who  marry),  I  would  enter  the  school  to- 
morrow. Certain  am  I  that  it  is  not  pleasant  to 
work  for  a  living  anyway,  but  "we  youth"  must  live, 
and  verily  this  "money"  is  a  very  good  thing,  though 
on  that  account  we  need  not  fall  down  and  worship 
it.  The  very  cent  on  which  my  eye  now  rests  may 
have  done  a  great  deal  of  good  in  its  day ;  perhaps  it 
has  made  glad  the  heart  of  the  widow,  and  put  a 
morsel  of  bread  in  the  famishing  mouths  of  her  chil- 
dren ;  and  perhaps  it  has  created  much  misery ;  per- 
haps some  now  determined  gambler  began  his  career 
of  sin  by  playing  chuck-farthing  with  that  very  piece 
of  stamped  copper. 

In  this  same  letter  his  burning  love  of 
liberty,  which  seemed  to  intensify  with  pass- 
ing years,  obtains  a  tentative  utterance  that 
came  to  its  culmination  long  afterward  in 
the  noble  "Commemoration  Ode:" 

A  plan  has  been  running  in  my  head,  for  some 
time,  of  writing  a  sort  of  dramatic  poem  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Cromwell.  Those  old  Roundheads  have  never 
had  justice  done  them.  They  have  only  been  held  up 
as  canting,  psalm-singing,  hypocritical  rascals ;  as  a 
sort  of  a  foil  for  the  open-hearted  Cavalier.  But  it 
were  a  strange  thing  indeed  if  there  were  not  some- 
what in  such  men  as  Milton,  Sidney,  Hampden, 
Selden  and  Pym.  It  always  struck  me  that  there 
was  more  true  poetry  in  those  old  fiery-eyed,  buff- 
belted  warriors — with  their  deep,  holy  enthusiasm 
for  liberty  and  democracy,  political  and  religious; 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      185 

with  their  glorious  trust  in  the  arm  of  the  Lord  in 
battle — than  in  the  dashing,  ranting  Cavaliers,  who 
wished  to  restore  their  king  that  they  might  give  vent 
to  their  passions,  and  go  to  sleep  again  in  the  laps  of 
their  mistresses,  deaf  to  the  cries  of  the  poor  and  the 
oppressed. 

After  the  final  relinquishment  of  his  nas- 
cent purpose  of  entering  the  ministry  Low- 
ell turned  his  attention  to  the  study  of  law, 
but  only  at  intervals  and  in  a  desultory  and 
half-hearted  manner.  He  says: 

I  am  reading  Blackstone  with  as  good  a  grace  and 
as  few  wry  faces  as  I  may.  ...  A  very  great  change 
has  come  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  of  life.  I 
have  renounced  the  law.  I  am  going  to  settle  down 
into  a  business  man  at  last,  after  all  I  have  said  to 
the  contrary.  Farewell !  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my 
greatness !  I  find  that  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  like 
the  law,  and  I  am  now  looking  out  for  a  place  "in  a 
store."  You  may  imagine  that  all  this  has  not  come 
to  pass  without  a  struggle.  ...  I  have  been  thinking 
seriously  of  the  ministry,  but  then — I  have  also 
thought  of  medicine,  but  then — still  worse !  .  .  .  On 
Monday  last  I  went  into  town  to  look  out  for  a  place, 
and  was  induced  en  passant  to  step  into  the  United 
States  Court,  where  there  was  a  case  pending  in 
which  Webster  was  one  of  the  counsel  retained.  I 
had  not  been  there  an  hour  before  I  determined  to 
continue  in  my  profession  and  study  as  well  as  I 
could. 


i86      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

The  vacillation  of  Lowell's  mind  at  this 
period  with  regard  to  his  life  pursuit  is  well 
portrayed  by  the  foregoing  quotations.  The 
poet's  interest  in  matters  of  public  concern 
had  already  been  kindled,  although  he  was 
still  ineligible  to  vote,  not  yet  having  come 
of  age.  In  view  of  the  Biglow  Papers  and 
their  influence  upon  their  time,  and  also 
of  Lowell's  brilliant  career  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  his  country  at  the  Spanish  court 
and  at  the  Court  of  St.  James,  some  of  the 
lines  in  a  letter  written  November  15,  1838, 
seem  to  be  almost  prophetic: 

I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  peaceable  young  gentle- 
man whom  you  know  in  college  flared  up  into  a  great 
political  luminary.  I  am  fast  becoming  ultra-demo- 
cratic, and  when  I  come  to  see  you,  which  I  trust 
will  be  very  soon,  I  intend  to  inoculate  you  with  the 
(I  won't  call  it  by  the  technical  term  of  "virus,"  be- 
cause that's  too  hard  a  word,  but  with  the)  principle. 
...  By  the  very  last  accounts  from  England,  im- 
mense meetings  have  been  held  in  all  parts  of  Eng- 
land to  petition  Parliament  for  an  equal  representa- 
tion. .  .  .  There  is  a  great  and  pregnant  change, 
ominous  of  much.  It  almost  brings  tears  into  my 
eyes  when  I  think  of  this  vast  multitude  starved, 
trampled  upon,  meeting  to  petition  the  government 
which  oppressed  them,  and  which  they  supported  by 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      187 

taxes  wrung  out  of  the  very  children's  lifeblood. 
Verily,  some  enthusiasts  have  even  ventured  to  as- 
sert that  there  are  hearts,  aye,  even  warm  ones,  under 
frieze  jerkins. 

Again  Lowell  swings  toward  the  law, 
with  the  pathetic  tergiversation  character- 
istic of  so  many  young  men  groping  toward 
their  lifework.  In  these  days  of  large  prices 
for  famous  names  and  commonplace  per- 
formances, it  is  rather  wholesome  to  note 
the  highest  fees  to  which  Lowell  aspired 
in  payment  for  a  lecture : 

The  more  I  think  of  business,  the  more  really  un- 
happy do  I  feel  and  think  more  and  more  of  study- 
ing law.  In  your  letter  you  speak  of  my  lecturing  in 
Andover,  about  which  I  forgot  to  speak  to  you.  Do 
they  pay  expenses?  They  gave  me  four  dollars  in 
Concord.  I  wish  they'd  take  it  into  their  heads  to 
ask  me  at  Cambridge,  where  they  pay  fifteen  dollars, 
or  in  Lowell,  where  they  pay  twenty-five  dollars ! 
What  to  do  with  myself  I  don't  know. 

Lowell  had  been  accused  of  indolence  by 
his  friends.  The  accusation  seems  to  have 
had  a  basis  of  fact,  and  the  poet  himself 
recognized  it.  Yet  it  has  ever  been  so  with 
those  possessed  of  poetical  genius ;  it  comes 


i88      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

to  its  best  only  in  that  atmosphere  of  leis- 
ureliness  and  contentment  wherein  indeed 
the 

.  .  .  Spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Here  is  the  young  writer's  confession:  "I 
am  lazy  enough  and  dilatory  enough,  heaven 
knows,  but  not  half  so  much  so  as  some  of 
my  friends  suppose.  At  all  events,  I  was 
never  made  for  a  merchant,  and  I  even  be- 
gin to  doubt  whether  I  was  made  for  any- 
thing in  particular  but  to  loiter  through 
life." 

In  view  of  the  eagerness  with  which  pub- 
lishers afterward  sought  the  work  of  Low- 
ell's pen,  the  desire  expressed  to  publish  a 
volume  of  his  poems  is  curiously  striking: 

If  I  could  get  any  bookseller  to  do  it  for  me,  I 
would  publish  a  volume  of  poems.  Of  late  a  fancy 
has  seized  me  for  so  doing.  If  it  met  with  any  com- 
mendation I  could  get  paid  for  contributions  to  peri- 
odicals. I  tried  last  night  to  write  a  little  rhyme — 
but  must  wait  for  the  moving  of  the  waters.  The 
nine  goddess  virgins  who  dance  with  tender  feet 
round  the  violet-hued  fountain  of  Hippocrene,  and 
whose  immortal  voices  drop  sweetly  from  their  lips, 
will  not  come  to  me. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      189 

Apropos  of  his  relation  to  the  law  he  writes 
again,  in  1839 : 

If  I  live,  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  (between  you 
and  me)  practice  law.  I  intend,  however,  to  study  it 
and  prepare  myself  for  practicing.  But  a  blind  pre- 
sentiment of  becoming  independent  in  some  other 
way  is  always  hovering  round  me.  Above  all  things 
should  I  love  to  be  able  to  sit  down  and  do  something 
literary  for  the  rest  of  my  natural  life. 

The  first  mention  of  Miss  Maria  White, 
afterward  Mrs.  Lowell,  we  find  in  a  letter 
addressed  by  Lowell  to  G.  B.  Loring,  and 
bearing  date  December  2,  1839: 

I  went  up  to  Watertown  on  Saturday  with  W.  A. 
White  and  spent  the  Sabbath  with  him.  You  ought 
to  see  his  father.  The  most  perfect  specimen  of  a 
bluff,  honest,  hospitable  country  squire  you  can  pos- 
sibly imagine.  His  mother,  too,  is  a  very  pleasant 
woman — a  sister  of  Mrs.  Oilman.  His  sister  is  a 
very  pleasant  and  pleasing  young  lady,  and  knows 
more  poetry  than  anyone  I  am  acquainted  with.  I 
mean  she  is  able  to  repeat  more.  She  is  more  fa- 
miliar, however,  with  modern  poets  than  with  the 
pure  wellsprings  of  English  poesy. 

Lowell  completed  his  studies  at  the  Har- 
vard Law  School  in  1840,  receiving  the  de- 
gree of  Bachelor  of  Laws.    His  father  had 
13 


IQO      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

suffered  financial  reverses,  and  the  poet 
now  found  himself  confronted  with  the  ne- 
cessity of  earning  his  own  livelihood.  In 
these  straits,  as  other  good  men  have  done 
in  all  ages,  Lowell  became  engaged  to  be 
married.  Miss  Maria  White  was  a  woman 
of  uncommon  personal  attractiveness,  and 
her  mental  endowments  were  of  a  high  or- 
der. She,  too,  wrote  poetry,  and  thus  was 
peculiarly  fitted  to  sympathize  with  the 
tastes  and  aspirations  of  her  gifted  husband. 
About  this  time  Lowell  concluded  to  col- 
lect his  poems  for  publication,  which  he  did 
under  the  title  of  A  Year's  Life.  The  little 
book  at  once  gave  its  author  an  assured 
place  among  his  younger  poetical  compeers. 
Lowell  published  his  second  volume  of  verse 
in  1843,  and  this  second  venture  afforded 
indubitable  evidence  of  maturing  power. 
In  1844  Lowell  published  a  volume  of  prose 
consisting  of  Conversations  on  Some  of  the 
Old  Poets.  The  critical  and  analytical  bent 
of  his  mind  was  now  well  determined,  and 
the  work  in  this  book  already  showed  ele- 
ments of  future  power.  At  the  close  of 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      191 

this  year  Lowell  married,  despite  his  very 
limited  and  precarious  income.  He  began 
to  write  for  antislavery  organs,  and,  being 
deeply  moved  by  the  noblest  humanitarian 
instincts,  he  gave  utterance  week  after  week 
to  sentiments  that  stirred  like  a  bugle  blast. 
Thus  the  Biglow  Papers  began  to  appear, 
and  were  at  once  received  with  an  expres- 
sion of  popular  favor  which  has  never 
changed.  In  1848  they  were  issued  in  a 
volume,  and  in  the  same  year  the  Fable  for 
Critics  and  the  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  were 
written  and  published. 

The  fugitive  ideal — we  have  sought  to 
capture  it,  but  it  has  still  eluded  our  utter- 
most cunning.  We  have  caught  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  its  loveliness — a  splendor  flashed 
for  an  instant  upon  our  eyes — and  our 
hearts  forever  after  have  known  a  vague 
unrest.  Sometimes  we  have  turned  our 
weary  eyes  toward  a  smiling  height,  and 
have  seen  a  shadowy  hand  beckoning  us 
thither.  Our  lives  may  have  been  empty  of 
some  longed-for  satisfactions,  but  we,  too, 
have  had  our  starry  moments — our  preg- 


192      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

nant  intimations  of  at  least  one  glorious 
possibility  whose  whispers  we  have  heard. 
It  was  so  with  our  poet.  The  growing 
temper  of  his  mind  is  well  illustrated  by  the 
following  lines  which  appear  in  letters  writ- 
ten in  1841 : 

I  know  that  God  has  given  me  powers  such  as  are 
not  given  to  all,  and  I  will  not  "hide  my  talent  in 
mean  clay."  I  do  not  care  what  others  may  think  of 
me  or  of  my  book,  because  if  I  am  worth  anything  I 
shall  one  day  show  it.  I  do  not  fear  criticism  so 
much  as  I  love  truth.  Nay,  I  do  not  fear  it  at  all. 
In  short,  I  am  happy.  Maria  fills  my  ideal,  and  I 
satisfy  hers.  And  I  mean  to  live  as  one  beloved  by 
such  a  woman  should  live.  She  is  every  way  noble. 
People  have  called  "Irene"  a  beautiful  piece  of  po- 
etry. And  so  it  is.  It  owes  all  its  beauty  to  her.  .  .  . 
I  have  just  finished  something  which  I  ought  to  have 
done  long  ago.  I  have  copied  off  a  ballad  of  mine 
for  a  publisher  of  the  name  of  D.  H.  Williams,  who 
is  getting  out  an  annual.  He  will  pay  me  five  dollars 
per  page,  and  more  if  the  book  sells  well.  Haw- 
thorne, Emerson,  and  Longfellow  are  writing  for  it, 
and  Bryant  and  Halleck  have  promised  to — so  I 
shall  be  in  good  company,  which  will  be  pleasing  to 
groundlings. 

At  times  Lowell  bubbled  over  with  fun 
and  animal  spirits ;  he  would  then  pour  out 
sufficient  original  wit  and  humor  to  have 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      193 

supplied    a    professional  humorist  with  a 
working  capital  for  several  years: 

The  next  day  I  was  up  before  sunrise,  and  got  into 
a  habit  of  early  rising  that  lasted  me  all  that  day. 
...  I  -have  nothing  else  in  the  way  of  novelty,  ex- 
cept an  expedient  I  hit  upon  for  my  hens  who  were 
backward  with  their  eggs.  On  rainy  days  I  set  Wil- 
liam to  reading  aloud  to  them  the  Lay  Sermons  of 
Coleridge,  and  the  effect  was  magical.  Whether 
their  consciences  were  touched  or  they  wished  to 
escape  the  preaching,  I  know  not.  ...  I  take  great 
comfort  in  God.  I  think  he  is  considerably  amused 
with  us  sometimes,  but  that  he  likes  us,  on  the  whole, 
and  would  not  let  us  get  at  the  match  box  so  care- 
lessly as  he  does  unless  he  knew  that  the  frame  of 
his  universe  was  fireproof.  ...  As  usual  I  haven't 
left  myself  time  to  correct  my  proofs.  What  a 
pleasant  life  I  shall  have  of  it  when  I  have  all  eter- 
nity on  deposit.  Then  the  printers  will  say,  "If  you 
can  with  convenience  return  proofs  before  end  of 
next  century,  you  would  oblige ;  but  there  is  no 
hurry."  'Tis  an  invincible  argument  for  immortality 
that  we  never  have  time  enough  here — except  for 
doing  other  things. 

Again  and  again  Lowell  reveals  the  ex- 
treme affectionateness  of  his  nature: 

You  say  that  life  seems  to  be  a  struggle  after  noth- 
ing in  particular.  But  you  are  wrong.  It  is  a  strug- 
gle after  the  peaceful  home  of  the  soul  in  a  natural 


194      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

and  loving  state  of  life.  Men  are  mostly  uncon- 
scious of  the  object  of  their  struggle,  but  it  is  al- 
ways connected  in  some  way  with  this.  If  they  gain 
wealth  and  power  or  glory,  it  is  all  to  make  up  for 
this  want,  which  they  feel,  but  scarce  know  what  it 
is.  But  nothing  will  ever  supply  the  place  of  this, 
any  more  than  their  softest  carpets  will  give  their 
old  age  the  spring  and  ease  which  arose  from  the  pli- 
ant muscles  of  youth.  ...  It  is  always  my  happiest 
thought  that  with  all  the  drawbacks  of  temperament 
(of  which  no  one  is  more  keenly  conscious  than  my- 
self) I  have  never  lost  a  friend.  For  I  would  rather 
be  loved  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  I  always 
thirst  after  affection,  and  depend  more  on  the  ex- 
pression of  it  than  is  altogether  wise. 

The  strongly  altruistic  tendencies  of 
Lowell's  mind  are  observable  in  the  views 
which  he  expressed  upon  the  question  of 
slavery : 

If  men  will  not  set  their  faces  against  this  mon- 
strous sin,  this  choragus  of  all  other  enormities,  they, 
at  least,  need  not  smile  upon  it,  much  less  write  in  its 
favor.  What,  in  the  name  of  God,  are  all  these  pal- 
try parties,  which  lead  men  by  the  nose  against  all 
that  is  best  and  holiest,  to  the  freedom  of  five  mil- 
lions of  men?  The  horror  of  slavery  can  only  be 
appreciated  by  one  who  has  felt  it  himself,  or  who 
has  imagination  enough  to  put  himself  in  the  place  of 
the  slave  and  fancy  himself  not  only  virtually  im- 
prisoned, but  forced  to  toil ;  and  all  this  for  no  crime 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      195 

and  for  no  reason  except  that  it  would  be  incon- 
venient to  free  them. 

That  Lowell  was  possessed  of  a  deeply 
spiritual  nature  none  who  are  well  acquaint- 
ed with  his  writings  will  be  disposed  to 
deny.  He  seemed  to  be  always  conscious 
of  the  divine  Immanence,  and  undoubtedly 
the  sense  of  God's  presence  and  overruling 
providence  lent  grandeur  and  dignity  to  his 
thought  and  life.  He  says: 

I  had  a  revelation  last  Friday  evening.  I  was  at 
Mary's,  and  happening  to  say  something  of  the  pres- 
ence of  spirits  (of  whom,  I  said,  I  was  often  dimly 
aware),  Mr.  Putnam  entered  into  an  argument  with 
me  on  spiritual  matters.  As  I  was  speaking,  the 
whole  system  rose  up  before  me  like  a  vague  destiny 
looming  from  the  abyss.  I  never  before  so  clearly 
felt  the  spirit  of  God  in  me  and  around  me.  The 
whole  room  seemed  to  me  full  of  God.  The  air 
seemed  to  waver  to  and  fro  with  the  presence  of 
something,  I  knew  not  what.  I  spoke  with  the  calm- 
ness and  clearness  of  a  prophet. 

In  his  young  manhood  Lowell  was  filled 
with  the  fine  and  brave  enthusiasms  of 
youth.  His  wings  were  light  and  strong, 
and  to  him  no  height  seemed  beyond  his 
reach.  His  buoyant  spirits  responded 


ig6      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

swiftly  to  every  change  for  the  better  in  the 
material  circumstances  of  his  life.  He 
looked  upon  his  conquest  of  the  world  as 
already  assured,  and  the  event  proved  the 
justice  of  his  judgment: 

I  have  set  about  making  myself  ambitious.  It  is 
the  only  way  to  climb  well.  Men  yield  more  readily 
to  an  ambitious  man,  provided  he  can  bear  it  out  by 
deeds.  Just  as  much  as  we  claim  the  world  gives 
us,  and  posterity  has  enough  to  do  in  nailing  the 
base  coin  to  the  counter.  But  I  only  mean  to  use 
my  ambition  as  a  staff  to  my  love  of  freedom  and 
man.  I  will  have  power,  and  there's  the  end  of  it. 
I  have  a  right  to  it,  too,  and  you  see  I  have  put  the 
crown  on  already. 

To  the  bereaved  friend  the  poet,  who 
himself  had  lost  a  darling  child,  and  who 
was  again  to  pass  through  the  swelling  of 
the  great  waters,  thus  addresses  himself 
concerning  death  and  sorrow: 

I  agree  entirely  with  what  you  have  said  of  death 
in  your  last  letter ;  but  at  the  same  time  I  know  well 
that  the  first  touch  of  his  hand  is  cold,  and  that  he 
comes  to  us,  as  the  rest  of  God's  angels  do,  in  dis- 
guise. But  we  are  enabled  to  see  his  face  fully  at 
last,  and  it  is  that  of  a  seraph.  So  it  is  with  all. 
Disease,  poverty,  death,  sorrow  all  come  to  us  with 
unbenign  countenances ;  but  from  one  after  another 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      197 

the  mask  falls  off,  and  we  behold  faces  which  re- 
tain the  glory  and  the  calm  of  having  looked  in  the 
face  of  God.  To  me,  at  least,  your  bereavement  has 
come  with  the  softest  step  and  the  most  hallowed 
features,  for  it  has  opened  a  new  channel  for  my  love 
to  flow  toward  you  in.  ...  It  is  therefore  no  idle 
form  when  I  tell  you  to  lean  on  God.  I  know  that 
it  is  needless  to  say  this  to  you,  but  I  know  also  that 
it  is  always  sweet  and  consoling  to  have  our  impulses 
seconded  by  the  sympathy  of  our  friends. 

We  all  are  tall  enough  to  reach  God's  hand, 
The  angels  are  no  taller. 

I  could  not  restrain  my  tears  when  I  read  what  you 
say  of  the  living  things  all  around  the  cast  mantle  of 
your  child.  It  is  strange,  almost  awful,  that,  when 
this  great  miracle  has  been  performed  for  us,  nature 
gives  no  sign.  Not  a  bee  stints  his  hum,  the  sun 
shines,  the  leaves  glisten,  the  cock  crow  comes  from 
the  distance,  the  flies  buzz  into  the  room,  and  yet 
perhaps  a  minute  before  the  most  immediate  presence 
of  God  of  which  we  can  conceive  was  filling  the 
whole  chamber,  and  opening  its  arms  to  "suffer  the 
little  ones  to  come  unto  him." 

The  filial  love  and  reverence  that  a  child 
owes  to  a  worthy  parent  Lowell  has  ex- 
pressed in  lines  which  fairly  throb  with 
warm  and  deep  affection.  t  His  portrait  of 
his  father  is  as  unstudied  as  it  is  delightful. 
The  manner  in  which  scholars  gather  knowl- 


198      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

edge  by  processes  of  accretion  Lowell  has 
indicated  with  his  accustomed  freshness 
and  originality: 

If  you  had  cast  about  for  a  hard  question  to  ask 
me,  you  could  not  have  been  more  successful  than  in 
desiring  my  advice  as  to  a  course  of  reading.  I 
suppose  that  very  few  men  who  are  bred  scholars 
ever  think  of  such  a  thing  as  a  course  of  reading 
after  their  Freshman  year  in  college.  Their  situa- 
tion throws  books  constantly  in  their  way,  and  they 
select  by  a  kind  of  instinct  the  food  which  will  suit 
their  mental  digestion,  acquiring  knowledge  insen- 
sibly, as  the  earth  gathers  soil.  This  was  wholly  the 
case  with  myself. 

Having  been  taken  to  task  for  entertain- 
ing the  principles  of  an  abolitionist,  and  in 
like  manner  having  been  accused  of  one- 
sidedness,  Lowell  thus  proceeds  to  defend 
himself : 

There  is  one  abolitionist,  at  least,  who  seldom  lets 
slip  any  opportunity  against  any  institution  which 
seems  to  him  to  stand  in  the  way  of  freedom.  Ab- 
solute freedom  is  what  I  want — for  the  body  first, 
and  then  for  the  mind.  For  the  body  first,  because  it 
is  easier  to  make  men  conscious  of  the  wrong  of 
that  grosser  and  more  outward  oppression,  and, 
after  seeing  that,  they  will  perceive  more  readily  the 
less  palpable  chains  and  gags  of  tyranny. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      199 

That  erratic,  irresponsible,  iconoclastic 
free  lance  of  letters,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  who 
ran  atilt  at  most  of  his  fellow-writers  in  his 
own  day,  did  not  permit  Lowell  to  escape. 
In  common  with  Longfellow  and  others 
already  eminent  in  literature,  Poe  accused 
Lowell  of  plagiarism.  Lowell  thus  repels 
the  charge : 

Poe,  I  am  afraid,  is  wholly  lacking  in  that  ele- 
ment of  manhood  which,  for  want  of  a  better  name, 
we  call  "character."  It  is  something  quite  distinct 
from  genius — though  all  great  geniuses  are  endowed 
with  it.  ...  As  I  prognosticated,  I  have  made  Poe 
my  enemy  by  doing  him  a  service.  Poe  wishes  to 
kick  down  the  ladder  by  which  he  rose.  He  is  wel- 
come. But  he  does  not  attack  me  at  a  weak  point. 
He  probably  cannot  conceive  of  anybody's  writing  for 
anything  but  a  newspaper  reputation,  or  for  post- 
humous fame,  which  is  but  the  same  thing  magnified 
by  distance.  I  have  quite  other  aims. 

In  this  same  letter,  from  which  the  fore- 
going quotation  is  made,  Lowell  permits  us 
to  look  for  a  moment  into  the  depths  of  his 
heart,  where  he  reveals  his  intense  longing 
for  sympathy  and  love.  Could  we  gaze  be- 
low the  cold  exterior  of  many  a  person 
whose  pathway  for  an  instant  crosses  our 


200      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

own,  we  doubtless  would  be  astonished  to 
learn  how,  in  the  largest  and  purest  na- 
tures, this  yearning  for  human  fellowship 
rises  into  a  very  passion.  Lowell's  concep- 
tion of  the  office  of  a  poet  was  a  lofty  one. 
His  charming  and  beautiful  prose  did  not 
possess  in  his  own  eyes  a  hundredth  part 
of  the  value  of  his  poetry.  His  desire  was 
to  live  and  be  remembered  by  what  he  had 
done  in  the  poetic  field.  He  was  conscious 
of  his  high  calling,  and  attained  to  rare  mo- 
ments of  prophetic  power  and  vicarious  suf- 
fering: 

My  calling  is  clear  to  me.  I  am  never  lifted  up  to 
any  peak  of  vision — and  moments  of  almost  fearful 
inward  illumination  I  have  sometimes — but  that, 
when  I  look  down  in  hope  to  see  some  valley  of  the 
Beautiful  Mountains,  I  behold  nothing  but  blackened 
ruins ;  and  the  moans  of  the  downtrodden  the  world 
over — but  chiefly  here  in  our  own  land — come  up  to 
my  ear,  instead  of  the  happy  songs  of  the  husband- 
men reaping  and  binding  the  sheaves  of  light;  yet 
these,  too,  I  hear  not  seldom.  Then  I  feel  how  great 
is  the  office  of  poet,  could  I  but  even  dare  to  hope  to 
fill  it. 

The  mutual  helpfulness  which  lies  at  the 
foundation  of  all  true  democracy  is  not  al- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      201 

ways  recognized,  particularly  by  those  who, 
because  of  birth,  training,  and  education, 
should  be  first  to  embody  in  their  own  lives 
the  fact  that  noblesse  oblige.  But  with 
Lowell  democracy  in  its  widest  and  truest 
sense  was  almost  a  religion.  All  great 
genius  has  been  allied  with  a  youthful  tem- 
perament that  never  aged.  In  fact,  genius 
itself,  as  a  subtle  prophylactic  against  time, 
is  a  preservative  of  the  simple  beliefs,  elas- 
ticity, and  fire  of  youth,  to  which  the  vision 
of  the  world  is  ever  fair  and  bright.  What- 
ever epigraphs  time  may  score  upon  the 
brow,  or  howsoever  upon  hollow  temples 
he  may  dust  his  rime,  genius  permits  no 
wrinkles  to  come  upon  the  heart.  The  self- 
same hopefulness  and  high-heartedness  of 
early  years  are  borne  lightly  onward  to  the 
very  end  of  life.  It  was  so  with  Lowell. 

How  much  a  matter  of  conscience  Low- 
ell's antislavery  sentiments  were  may  be 
discovered  from  the  fact  that  he  was  re- 
luctant to  receive  money  for  the  articles 
which  he  produced  in  behalf  of  the  cause  so 
dear  to  his  heart.  Whatever  the  acknowl- 


202      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

edged  charms  of  Lowell  the  author — and 
they  are  many — they  were  eclipsed  by  the 
charming  personality  of  Lowell  the  man. 
It  should  ever  be  thus.  The  writer  who  is 
not  greater  than  his  writings  is  a  kind  of 
impostor,  for  he  creates  in  the  minds  of 
others  a  false  conception  of  himself.  That 
Lowell  never  lost  a  friend  who  really  knew 
him  need  not  be  regarded  as  surprising.  "If 
I  did  not  think  that  I  were  better  than  my 
books,"  he  says,  "I  should  never  dream  of 
writing  another."  He  cherished  a  perpet- 
ual and  consuming  desire  to  fulfill  the  ex- 
pectations of  his  friends.  He  knew  that 
they  anticipated  great  things  for  him,  and 
he  set  about  to  realize  these  anticipations. 
At  the  same  time  he  felt  that  his  poetical 
power  and  skill  were  increasing,  and  he 
looked  into  the  future  with  the  resilience  of 
hope  based  upon  praiseworthy  performance. 
His  never-failing  kindliness  of  heart  and 
invincible  good  humor  helped  him  over  not 
a  few  of  the  rough  places  of  life.  He  was 
able  to  see  the  humorous  side  of  almost 
every  situation,  so  that  difficulties  which 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      203 

would  have  dismayed  many  another  man 
were  for  him  minified  to  the  vanishing 
point.  Nor  was  he  afraid  of  dealing  with 
some  of  the  most  perplexing  of  the  ethical 
problems  of  the  world.  He  looked  upon 
human  nature  with  a  clear  and  tolerant  eye, 
and  he  never  despaired  of  the  ultimate 
elevation  of  humanity.  His  attitude 
toward  the  Author  of  the  Christian  faith 
was  one  of  deepest  reverence  and  unchang- 
ing love. 

Death  was  not  idle  in  the  poet's  life.  His 
dear  children  were  taken  from  him,  one  by 
one — with  the  exception  of  his  daughter 
Mabel — and  all  too  soon  his  beautiful  and 
beloved  wife.  In  the  loss  of  the  latter  Low- 
ell drank  of  the  bitterest  cup  that  can  be 
pressed  to  the  lips  of  man.  She  was  a  frag- 
ile creature  of  fire  and  dew,  and  the  end  ap- 
proached so  insidiously  under  cover  of  a 
constitutional  delicacy  of  health  that  it  took 
the  poet  by  a  heartbreaking  surprise.  This 
great  sorrow  wore  him  down,  but  his  faith 
and  resignation  rose  triumphant  above  the 
affliction. 


204      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

In  the  opening  months  of  1855  ne  was 
elected  to  a  professorship  in  Harvard  Col- 
lege— a  chair  which  had  previously  been 
occupied  by  Ticknor  and  Longfellow. 
Lowell  entered  upon  the  duties  of  his  new 
position  on  his  return  from  Europe,  in  1856. 
He  continued  in  this  relation  for  twenty 
years.  In  1857  he  also  became  editor  of  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  "sitting  in  the  seat  of  the 
scorner,"  as  he  expressed  it,  for  four  con- 
secutive years.  At  the  end  of  this  period 
he  became  associated  with  Charles  Eliot 
Norton  in  the  joint  editorship  of  the  North 
American  Review.  During  the  soul-trying 
years  of  our  civil  war  his  was  a  puissant 
voice  lifted  in  defense  of  the  Union.  The 
mounting  fire  and  passion  of  his  patriotism 
culminated  in  the  splendid  "Commemoration 
Ode,"  which  seems  to  have  been  written 
with  his  very  heart's  blood.  Lowell  was  al- 
ways pleased  at  any  recognition  of  his  work 
as  a  poet.  He  felt  that  he  had  in  him  all 
the  elements  of  the  highest  poetical  achieve- 
ments, and  in  consequence  looked  with  a 
certain  dissatisfaction  upon  his  best  pro- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      205 

ductions  as  falling  far  below  his  own  ideal 
of  excellence  and  of  possibility.  He  was 
always  conscious,  also,  notwithstanding  the 
general  buoyancy  of  his  nature,  that  upon 
him,  as  upon  all  great  sensitive  souls, 
pressed  the  inescapable  weltschmers  which 
haunts  these  years  of  time. 

Many  of  Lowell's  utterances  might  pass 
current  as  proverbs,  so  trenchant  are  they 
and  bite  with  such  power  into  the  memory : 

He  cannot  be  a  wise  man  who  never  says  a  fool- 
ish thing,  and,  indeed,  I  go  further,  and  affirm  that 
it  takes  a  wise  man  to  say  a  foolish  thing.  .  .  .  We 
never  find  out  on  how  many  insignificant  points  we 
have  fastened  the  subtile  threads  of  association — 
which  is  almost  love  with  sanguine  temperaments — 
till  we  are  forced  to  break  them.  .  .  .  We  shall 
'never  feather  our  nests  from  the  eagles  we  have  let 
fly.  ...  It  is  splendid,  as  girls  say,  to  dream  back- 
ward so.  One  feels  as  if  he  were  a  poet,  and  one's 
own  Odyssey  sings  itself  in  one's  blood  as  he  walks. 
.  .  .  What  a  web  a  man  can  spin  out  of  his  life,  if 
a  man  be  only  a  genius.  ...  I  have  discovered  that 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  learn  all  about  anything 
unless  indeed  it  be  some  piece  of  ill-luck,  and  then 
one  has  the  help  of  one's  friends.  .  .  .  But  let  us 
have  a  cheerful  confidence  that  we  are  worth  damn- 
ing, for  that  implies  a  chance  also  of  something  bet- 
ter. ...  I  believe  it  one  of  the  most  happy  things 
14 


206      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

in  the  world,  as  we  grow  older,  to  have  as  many  ties 
as  possible  with  whatever  is  best  in  our  own  past, 
and  to  be  pledged  as  deeply  as  may  be  to  our  own 
youth.  .  .  .  That  friendship  should  be  able  to  endure 
silence  without  suspicion  is  the  surest  touchstone  of 
its  sufficiency.  ...  I  have  always  believed  that  a 
man's  fate  is  born  with  him,  and  that  he  cannot 
escape  from  it  nor  greatly  modify  it — and  that  con- 
sequently everyone  gets  in  the  long  run  exactly  what 
he  deserves,  neither  more  nor  less.  ...  If  a  man 
does  anything  good,  the  world  always  finds  it  out, 
sooner  or  later,  and  if  he  doesn't,  why,  the  world 
finds  that  out,  too — and  ought  to.  ...  Women  need 
social  stimulus  more  than  we  [men].  They  con- 
tribute to  it  more,  and  their  magnetism,  unless  drawn 
off  by  the  natural  conductors,  turns  inward  and  irri- 
tates. ...  I  look  upon  a  belief  as  none  the  worse, 
but  rather  the  better,  for  being  hereditary,  prizing  as 
I  do  whatever  helps  to  give  continuity  to  the  being 
and  doing  of  man  and  an  accumulated  force  to  his 
character.  .  .  .  They  go  about  to  prove  to  me  from 
a  lot  of  nasty  savages  that  conscience  is  a  purely 
artificial  product,  as  if  that  wasn't  the  very  wonder 
of  it.  What  odds  whether  it  is  the  thing  or  the  apti- 
tude that  is  innate?  What  race  of  beasts  ever  got 
one  up  in  all  their  leisurely  aeons?  ...  I  don't  care 
where  the  notion  of  immortality  came  from.  If  it 
sprang  out  of  a  controlling  necessity  of  our  nature, 
some  instinct  of  self-protection  and  preservation,  like 
the  color  of  some  of  Darwin's  butterflies,  at  any  rate 
it  is  there  and  as  real  as  that,  and  I  mean  to  hold 
it  fast. 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      207 

The  unfolding  of  a  commanding  intellect 
always  presents  a  fascinating  study,  and 
hence  the  writer  of  these  lines  has  purposely 
lingered  over  the  earlier  portion  of  Lowell's 
life  as  we  find  it  expressed  in  his  letters. 
His  high  place  as  a  poet  is  so  widely  recog- 
nized that  no  words  in  emphasis  of  that 
fact  are  needed  now.  As  a  critic  he  brought 
to  bear  upon  his  task  a  kindly  disposition,  a 
culture  broad  and  exact,  and  a  catholicity 
of  taste  equaled  only  by  the  acumen  of  his 
mind.  His  perception  of  high  qualities 
seemed  to  be  instinctive.  The  slashing, 
swashbuckling  style  of  criticism  which  pre- 
vailed about  the  middle  of  the  present  cen- 
tury Lowell  wholly  eschewed,  and  perhaps 
for  the  first  time  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic 
there  was  apparent  an  earnest  and  pains- 
taking effort  to  ascertain  the  real  content  of 
a  piece  of  literary  art.  Over  all  his  writing, 
likewise,  in  whatever  kind,  there  played  an 
ever  various  and  subtle  humor  like  irides- 
cent light. 


VII 

THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT 
LOUIS    STEVENSON 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      211 


VII 

THE     LETTERS     OF     ROBERT     LOUIS 

STEVENSON 

WE  have  fallen  upon  an  age  of  notes  and 
notelets.  The  old  leisureliness  requisite  for 
the  cultivation  of  the  epistolary  art  is  ours 
no  longer.  The  demon  of  haste  lurks  at 
our  elbow,  and  we  no  longer  take  time  to 
observe  the  amenities  of  friendship.  In 
days  that  are  past  a  letter  was  at  once  a 
news-sheet,  a  record  of  mental  taste  and  de- 
light, and  a  flashing  mirror  of  the  heart. 
Every  word  exhaled  an  aroma  of  personali- 
ty. Now  we  receive  a  few  type-written 
lines  of  colorless  language,  and  we  must 
accept  them  forsooth  as  a  letter.  Yet  these 
latter  years  have  not  been  wholly  devoid  of 
the  kindly  instincts  of  the  genuine  letter- 
writer;  and  when  we  turn  to  the  corre- 
spondence of  Lowell,  the  Brownings,  Dante 
Rossetti,  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  it  is 
like  breathing  again  the  atmosphere  in 


212      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

which  Keats,  Cowper,  Schiller,  and  Lamb 
indited  letters  with  a  pen  dipped  in  their 
own  hearts. 

It  is  posterity  that  pronounces  final  judg- 
ment upon  a  writer.  He  may  fill  a  large 
and  unique  place  among  his  contemporaries, 
and  seem  to  the  eyes  that  look  upon  his  own 
day  as  destined  to  a  seat  among  the  im- 
mortals, but  it  is  those  who  come  after  him 
to  whom  is  committed  the  ultimate  adjudi- 
cation of  his  claims  to  remembrance.  The 
writer  who  lacks  vitality  and  a  fecund  and 
fertilizing  power  over  others  will,  imme- 
diately that  death  has  vindicated  his  univer- 
sal sway,  quietly  slip  into  the  limbo  of  for- 
getfulness.  But  he  in  whose  veins  life 
warms  and  riots,  who  makes  his  pages 
breathe  with  a  full  and  healthy  scope,  who 
appeals  to  the  fundamental  instincts  and 
loves  of  humankind,  may  falter  for  a  little 
while  in  his  march  toward  the  Pantheon  of 
perpetual  renown,  but  sooner  or  later  he 
assuredly  arrives. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  an  artist, 
curious  and  delightful,  dealing  with  his  sub- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      213 

jects  in  the  fresh,  joyous,  and  zestful  man- 
ner in  which  an  active-minded  boy  inspects 
each  new  object  that  comes  within  the  ra- 
dius of  his  experience.  In  fact,  as  a  writer, 
Stevenson's  brave  and  sunny  juvenescence 
is  one  of  his  most  charming  traits.  In  his 
works  he  shines  forth  in  many  characters; 
he  is  a  moralist — sometimes  of  the  grave- 
digger  type — a  poet,  a  humorist,  a  Bohe- 
mian, an  adventurer,  a  buccaneer,  a  prince, 
a  beggar,  a  historian,  a  traveler,  a  chron- 
icler of  everyday  events,  a  hater  of  false- 
hoods and  shams.  He  has  a  clear  and  forth- 
right way  of  telling  a  story,  though  in  him 
the  dreamer  is  strangely  united  with  the 
man  of  action.  A  singular  intimacy  broods 
over  his  pages,  so  that  he  takes  at  once  into 
his  confidence  those  who  will  listen,  how- 
ever briefly,  to  his  words.  He  loved  to 
deal  with  the  elemental  passions  and  qual- 
ities of  humankind,  as  witness  Herrick's 
struggle  against  moral  decadence,  and  Da- 
vis's  redemption  to  righteousness,  in  The 
Ebb  Tide,  or  the  conflict  arising  in  the  dual 
nature  of  every  man  as  portrayed  in  The 


214      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde. 
He  did  not  tamely  accept  all  that  modern 
society  imposes  on  its  devotees.  Inwardly 
he  chafed,  and  outwardly  was  always  some- 
thing of  a  rebel,  against  the  repressive  and 
mechanical  social  conventions  which  rule 
the  present  time.  In  a  high  degree  he  was 
impressible  to  all  the  experiences  of  life, 
remembering  moods  and  emotions  both  sub- 
tle and  elusive.  His  Child's  Garden  of 
Verses  is  the  chronicle  of  a  childhood  pecul- 
iar in  its  unforgotten  imaginative  products. 
The  aura  of  a  period  and  a  world  filled  with 
shapes  and  sounds,  too  vivid  to  seem  un- 
real, lingered  in  his  memory  through  all  the 
years  of  his  mature  manhood.  So  deeply 
had  the  scenes  and  impressions  of  his  early 
life  bitten  into  his  mind  that  his  most  living 
thoughts  were  of  those  days  which,  to  most 
of  us,  are  soon  forgotten. 

Stevenson  loved  those  writers  of  whom 
he  said  that  they  had  been  "eavesdropping 
at  the  door  of  his  heart."  He  himself  was 
like  them.  Again  and  again  he  draws  back 
to  his  pages  those  readers  whom  he  attracts 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      215 

at  all,  and  each  time  the  old  charm  is  re- 
newed with  fresh  relish  and  enjoyment. 
This  undoubtedly  is  the  test  of  a  writer's 
permanence — the  possession  of  that  magic 
whereby  a  former  spell  is  caused  to  operate 
upon  a  reader's  heart,  he  knows  not  how 
and  he  cares  not  why;  once  drawn  within 
the  mystic  influence  of  the  wizard's  circle, 
he  surrenders  to  the  power  which  is  upon 
him  and  takes  his  intoxication  with  joy. 
First  of  all,  Stevenson  was  an  artist.  He 
knew  the  value  of  words.  He  studied  their 
shades  and  sounds.  He  understood  how  to 
make  his  narratives  and  descriptions  cumu- 
lative in  effect.  For  instance,  what  can  sur- 
pass in  beauty  and  potency  the  account  in 
Prince  Otto  of  Seraphina's  spiritual  rebap- 
tism  in  the  forest  at  night? 

At  last  she  began  to  be  aware  of  a  wonderful  revo- 
lution, compared  to  which  the  fire  of  Mittwalden 
Palace  was  but  the  crack  and  flash  of  a  percussion 
cap.  The  countenance  with  which  the  pines  re- 
garded her  began  insensibly  to  change  ;  the  grass,  too, 
short  as  it  was,  and  the  whole  winding  staircase  of 
the  brook's  course,  began  to  wear  a  solemn  fresh- 
ness of  appearance.  And  this  slow  transfiguration 


216      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

reached  her  heart,  and  played  upon  it,  and  trans- 
pierced it  with  a  serious  thrill.  She  looked  all 
about;  the  whole  face  of  nature  looked  back,  brim- 
ful of  meaning,  finger  on  lip,  leaking  its  glad  secret. 
She  looked  up.  Heaven  was  almost  emptied  of  stars. 
Such  as  still  lingered  shone  with  a  changed  and  wan- 
ing brightness,  and  began  to  faint  in  their  stations. 
And  the  color  of  the  sky  itself  was  the  most  wonder- 
ful ;  for  the  rich  blue  of  the  night  had  now  melted 
and  softened  and  brightened ;  and  there  had  suc- 
ceeded in  its  place  a  hue  that  has  no  name,  and  that 
is  never  seen  but  as  the  herald  of  morning.  "O !" 
she  cried,  joy  catching  at  her  voice,  "O !  it  is  the 
dawn !"  In  a  breath  she  passed  over  the  brook,  and 
looped  up  her  skirts  and  fairly  ran  in  the  dim  alleys. 
As  she  ran  her  ears  were  aware  of  many  pipings, 
more  beautiful  than  music ;  in  the  small  dish-shaped 
houses  in  the  fork  of  giant  arms,  where  they  had  lain 
all  night,  lover  by  lover,  warmly  pressed,  the  bright- 
eyed,  big-hearted  singers  began  to  awake  for  the  day. 
Her  heart  melted  and  flowed  forth  to  them  in  kind- 
ness. And  they,  from  their  small  and  high  perches 
in  the  clerestories  of  the  wood  cathedral,  peered 
down  sidelong  at  the  ragged  princess  as  she  flitted 
below  them  on  the  carpet  of  the  moss  and  tassel. 

To  this  artistic  quality  of  Stevenson  valu- 
able testimony  is  borne  by  Sidney  Colvin 
in  the  following  word  of  reminiscence: 

I  remember  the  late  Sir  John  Millais,  a  shrewd 
and  very  independent  judge  of  books,  calling  across 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      217 

to  me  at  a  dinner-table,  "You  know  Stevenson,  don't 
you?"  and  then  going  on,  "Well,  I  wish  you  would 
tell  him  from  me,  if  he  cares  to  know,  that  to  my 
mind  he  is  the  very  first  of  living  artists.  I  don't 
mean  writers  merely,  but  painters  and  all  of  us ;  no- 
body living  can  see  with  such  an  eye  as  that  fellow, 
and  nobody  is  such  a  master  of  his  tools." 

Stevenson's  vocabulary  was  particularly 
rich  and  noble.  To  him  words  were  much 
like  living  things.  He  loved  them  not  only 
for  what  they  expressed,  but  for  an  intrinsic 
value  which  he  was  keen  to  discover.  His 
choice  of  the  beautiful  and  colorful  was  in- 
tuitive. Some  have  accused  him  of  em- 
ploying a  style  which  was  imitative,  or  at 
best  but  a  compound  of  many  others.  "By 
the  way,  I  have  tried  to  read  the  Spectator, 
which  they  all  say  I  imitate,  and — it's  very 
wrong  of  me,  I  know — but  I  can't.  It's  all 
very  fine,  you  know,  and  all  that,  but  it's 
vapid."  He  was  an  ardent  and  sincere  stu- 
dent of  the  world's  best  literature;  but  all 
that  he  received  from  whatsoever  source 
went  into  the  alembic  of  his  own  mind,  was 
fused  in  the  heat  of  his  own  thought,  and 
came  out  Stevenson.  He  was  a  maker  of 


218      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

memorable  phrases  as  well  as  a  sane  com- 
mentator upon  life  and  conduct: 

"Acts  may  be  forgiven,  not  even  God  can  forgive 
the  hanger-back."  "Choose  the  best  if  you  can;  or 
choose  the  worst;  that  which  hangs  in  the  wind 
dangles  from  a  gibbet."  "A  fault  known  is  a  fault 
cured  to  the  strong;  but  to  the  weak  it  is  a  fetter 
riveted."  "The  mean  man  doubts,  the  great-hearted 
is  deceived."  "Shame  had  a  fine  bed,  but  where 
was  slumber?  Once  he  was  in  jail  he  'slept.'" 
"Disappointment,  except  with  one's  self,  is  not  a  very 
capital  affair ;  and  the  sham  beatitude,  'Blessed  is  he 
that  expecteth  little,'  one  of  the  truest  and,  in  a 
sense,  the  most  Christlike  things  in  literature."  "It 
is  much  more  important  to  do  right  than  not  to  do 
wrong;  further,  the  one  is  possible,  the  other  has 
always  been  and  will  ever  be  impossible;  and  the 
faithful  designer  to  do  right  is  accepted  by  God ; 
that  seems  to  me  to  be  the  Gospel,  and  that  was  how 
Christ  delivered  us  from  the  law."  "Ugliness  is  only 
the  prose  of  horror."  "O,  if  I  knew  how  to  omit,  I 
would  ask  no  other  knowledge.  A  man  who  knew 
how  to  omit  would  make  an  Iliad  of  a  daily  paper." 
"To  fume  and  fret  is  undignified,  suicidally  foolish, 
and  theologically  unpardonable ;  we  are  here  not  to 
make,  but  to  tread  predestined  pathways ;  we  are  the 
foam  of  a  wave,  and  to  preserve  a  proper  equanimity 
is  not  merely  the  first  part  of  submission  to  God, 
but  the  chief  of  possible  kindnesses  to  those  about 
us."  "The  great  double  danger  of  taking  life  too 
easily,  and  taking  it  too  hard,  how  difficult  it  is  to 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      219 

balance  that !"  "The  Bible,  in  most  parts,  is  a  cheer- 
ful book ;  it  is  our  little  piping  theologies,  tracts,  and 
sermons  that  are  dull  and  dowie." 

Stevenson  was  a  brilliant  and  entertain- 
ing conversationalist  among  his  friends. 
"He  radiates  talk,"  says  W.  E.  Henley,  "as 
the  sun  does  light  and  heat;  and  after  an 
evening — or  a  week — with  him,  you  come 
forth  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction  in  your 
own  capacity  which  somehow  proves  superi- 
or even  to  the  inevitable  conclusion  that  your 
brilliance  was  but  the  reflection  of  his  own, 
and  that  all  the  while  you  were  only  play- 
ing the  part  of  Rubinstein's  piano  or  Sara- 
sate's  violin."  His  humanity  was  so  large 
that  his  friendships  were  not  confined  alone 
to  those  who  cultivated  the  literary  life,  but 
he  bound  to  him  with  enduring  ties  of  af- 
fection those  who  won  his  regard  in  various 
fields  of  activity.  He  never  posed  as  a 
valetudinarian,  nor  played  on  the  sympa- 
thies of  the  public,  though  he  was  upon 
perpetual  flittings  in  search  of  health — now 
in  Switzerland,  now  in  the  Adirondack 
Mountains,  and  now  in  the  ends  of  the 


220      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

earth.  "To  me,"  he  says,  "the  medicine  bot- 
tles on  my  chimney  and  the  blood  on  my 
handkerchief  are  accidents;  they  do  not 
color  my  view  of  life;  and  I  should  think 
myself  a  trifler  and  in  bad  taste  if  I  intro- 
duced the  world  to  these  unimportant 
privacies." 

Stevenson  came  of  good  stock  on  both 
his  father's  and  mother's  side.  His  pater- 
nal grandfather  was  a  civil  engineer  and 
built  the  Bell  Rock  lighthouse.  The  father 
of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  Thomas, 
the  youngest  son  of  Robert  Stevenson.  Rob- 
ert Louis's  mother,  from  whom  he  inher- 
ited his  delicate  constitution,  was  Margaret 
Isabella  Balfour,  youngest  daughter  of  Rev. 
Lewis  Balfour,  minister  of  the  parish  of 
Colinton,  in  Midlothian.  Robert  Lewis 
Balfour  Stevenson,  as  our  novelist  was 
christened,  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  Novem- 
ber 13,  1850.  He  was  an  only  child,  always 
feeble,  and  subject  to  extreme  nervous  ex- 
citement. An  eager  listener  to  tales  of  ad- 
venture and  deeds  of  derring-do,  he  began 
early  to  try  his  hand  at  composition  of  his 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      221 

own.  He  failed  to  receive  much  regular 
schooling  because  of  his  infirm  health.  In 
his  childhood  he  was  characterized  by  the 
same  power  to  charm  that  he  so  impressed 
upon  others  in  his  maturer  years.  The 
blood  of  the  gypsy  seemed  to  be  potent  in 
his  veins,  and  he  was  a  wanderer  almost  to 
the  close  of  his  life.  It  was  hoped  that  he, 
too,  would  enter  the  family  profession  of 
civil  engineer.  He  was  entered  as  a  stu- 
dent at  Edinburgh  University,  and  attended 
classes  there  as  his  health  and  inclination 
permitted.  He  was  not  a  hard  student  at 
college;  but  in  his  own  desultory  way  he 
was  an  ardent  devourer  of  books,  and  at 
the  same  time  kept  his  eyes  wide  open  upon 
humankind.  His  reading  ranged  the  entire 
field  of  English  letters,  and  he  was  no  stran- 
ger to  the  literature  of  other  tongues. 

In  1871,  though  he  had  manifested  a  de- 
gree of  aptitude  for  the  profession  of  civil 
engineer,  it  was  concluded  that  neither  his 
physical  ability  nor  personal  tastes  would 
admit  of  his  following  the  pursuit  of  his 

forbears,  and  he  began  to  study  law.     He 
15 


222      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1875,  but  he  was 
never  to  follow  a  lawyer's  vocation.  Stev- 
enson's parents  were  of  a  religious  tempera- 
ment, but  the  novelist  early  revolted  against 
the  stern  and  forbidding  aspects  of  the  creed 
which  was  dominant  in  his  father's  house. 
He  regarded  all  dogmatic  formulation  of 
theological  opinions  as  an  expression  of  the 
universal  human  need  of  something  divine 
in  the  presence  of  the  inscrutable  mysteries 
which  forever  infold  us  here.  Thus  he  soon 
found  himself  at  variance  with  his  father 
upon  questions  of  faith.  The  father  was  a 
strictly  orthodox,  deeply  religious  Scotch- 
man, with  all  that  the  terms  imply.  The 
son,  early  imbibing  the  spirit  of  freedom 
and  toleration,  chafed  within  the  narrow 
bounds  of  the  paternal  belief,  and  at  length 
broke  away  altogether,  with  what  heart 
pangs  between  father  and  son  few  can  know 
or  understand,  for  they  dearly  loved  each 
other  and  had  been  boon  companions.  Louis 
writes : 

The  thunderbolt  has  fallen  with  a  vengeance  now. 
On  Friday  night,  after  leaving  you,  in  the  course  of 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      223 

conversation,  my  father  put  me  one  or  two  questions 
as  to  beliefs,  which  I  candidly  answered.  I  really 
hate  all  lying  so  much  now — a  new-found  honesty 
that  has  somehow  come  out  of  my  late  illness — that 
I  could  not  so  much  as  hesitate  at  the  time ;  but,  if  I 
had  foreseen  the  real  hell  of  everything  since,  I 
think  I  should  have  lied,  as  I  have  done  so  often  be- 
fore. I  so  far  thought  of  my  father,  but  I  had  for- 
gotten my  mother.  And  now  !  they  are  both  ill,  both 
silent,  both  as  down  in  the  mouth  as  if — I  can  find 
no  simile.  You  may  fancy  how  happy  it  is  for  me. 
If  it  were  not  too  late,  I  think  I  could  almost  find  it 
in  my  heart  to  retract,  but  it  is  too  late ;  and,  again, 
am  I  to  live  my  whole  life  as  one  falsehood?  Of 
course  it  is  rougher  than  hell  upon  my  father,  but 
can  I  help  it?  They  don't  see,  either,  that  my  game 
is  not  the  light-hearted  scoffer;  that  I  am  not — as 
they  call  me — a  careless  infidel.  I  believe  as  much 
as  they  do,  only  generally  in  the  inverse  ratio ;  I  am, 
I  think,  as  honest  as  they  can  be  in  what  I  hold.  I 
have  not  come  hastily  to  my  views.  I  reserve — as  I 
told  them — many  points  until  I  acquire  fuller  infor- 
mation, and  do  not  think  I  am  thus  justly  to  be 
called  "horrible  atheist."  .  .  .  Here  is  a  good  heavy 
cross  with  a  vengeance,  and  all  rough  with  rusty 
nails  that  tear  your  fingers,  only  it  is  not  I  that  have 
to  carry  it  alone ;  I  hold  the  light  end,  but  the  heavy 
burden  falls  on  these  two. 

He  seems  to  recur  to  this  unhappy  period 
in  his  life  in  his  portraiture  of  Weir  of 
Hermiston,  when  he  says: 


224      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Sympathy  is  not  due  to  these  steadfast  iron  na- 
tures. If  he  [the  old  judge]  failed  to  gain  his  son's 
friendship,  or  even  his  son's  toleration,  on  he  went 
up  the  great  bare  staircase  of  his  duty,  uncheered 
and  undepressed.  There  might  have  been  more 
pleasure  in  his  relations  with  Archie,  so  much  he 
may  have  recognized  at  moments ;  but  pleasure  was 
a  by-product  of  the  singular  chemistry  of  life,  which 
only  fools  expected. 

As  an  example  of  his  early  power  of  de- 
scription and  his  growing  habit  of  observa- 
tion, the  following,  written  at  eighteen,  is 
an  adequate  specimen.  In  a  letter  to  his 
mother  he  says : 

To  the  south,  however,  is  as  fine  a  piece  of  coast 
scenery  as  I  ever  saw.  Great  black  chasms,  huge 
black  cliffs,  rugged  and  overhung  gullies,  natural 
arches,  and  deep  green  pools  below  them,  almost  too 
deep  to  let  you  see  the  gleam  of  sand  among  the 
darker  weed ;  there  are  deep  caves,  too.  In  one  of 
these  lives  a  tribe  of  gypsies.  The  men  are  always 
drunk,  simply  and  truthfully  always.  From  morning 
to  evening  the  great  villainous-looking  fellows  are 
either  sleeping  off  the  last  debauch  or  hulking  about 
the  cave  "in  the  horrors."  The  cave  is  deep,  high, 
and  airy,  and  might  be  made  comfortable  enough. 
But  they  just  live  among  heaped  bowlders,  damp  with 
continual  droppings  from  above,  with  no  more  fur- 
niture than  two  or  three  tin  pans,  a  truss  of  rotten 
straw,  and  a  few  ragged  cloaks.  In  winter  the  surf 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS      225 

bursts  into  the  mouth  and  often  forces  them  to  aban- 
don it. 

Already  his  was  a  deft  hand  at  character- 
ization, as  evidenced  in  the  following  ex- 
tract from  his  pen : 

Seven  P.  M.  found  me  at  Breadalbane  Terrace,  clad 
in  spotless  blacks,  white  tie,  shirt,  et  cetera,  and  fin- 
ished off  below  with  a  pair  of  navvies'  boots.  How 
true  that  the  devil  is  betrayed  by  his  feet !  A  mes- 
sage to  Cummy  at  last.  Why,  O  treacherous  woman, 
were  my  dress  boots  withheld?  Dramatis  persona:  : 
pere  R.,  amusing,  long-winded,  in  many  points  like 
papa ;  mere  R.,  nice,  delicate,  likes  hymns,  knew  Aunt 
Margaret  (f  ould  man  knew  Uncle  Alan)  ;  fille  R., 
nommee  "Sara"  (no  A),  rather  nice,  lights  up  well, 
good  voice,  interested  face ;  Miss  L.,  nice  also, 
washed  out  a  little,  and,  I  think,  a  trifle  sentimental ; 
fits  R.,  in  a  Leith  office,  smart,  full  of  happy  epithet, 
amusing.  They  are  very  nice  and  very  kind — asked 
me  to  come  back — ''any  night  you  feel  dull ;  and  any 
night  doesn't  mean  no  night :  we'll  be  so  glad  to  see 
you."  C'est  la  mere  qui  parle. 

In  the  same  letter  there  are  intimations  of 
his  later  and  mature  style:  "As  my  senses 
slowly  flooded,  I  heard  the  whistling  and 
the  roaring  of  wind,  and  the  lashing  of 
gust-blown  and  uncertain  flaws  of  rain.  I 
got  up,  dressed,  and  went  out.  The  mizzled 


226      LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

sky  and  rain  blinded  you.  ...  I  stood  a 
long  while  on  the  cope  watching  the  sea  be- 
low me ;  I  hear  its  dull,  monotonous  roar  at 
this  moment  below  the  shrieking  of  the 
wind." 

The  prevision  of  his  early  death  is  re- 
corded again  and  again;  not  in  any  mawk- 
ish or  sentimental  manner,  but  as  a  thing 
already  understood  and  accepted.  The 
mingled  gayety  and  melancholy  which  un- 
derlay his  nature  break  forth  quite  spon- 
taneously in  the  early  letters  which  he  in- 
dited to  interested  and  affectionate  friends: 
"When  I  am  a  very  old  and  very  respectable 
citizen,  with  white  hair  and  bland  manners 
and  a  gold  watch,  I  shall  hear  crows  cawing 
in  my  heart,  as  I  heard  them  this  morning. 
I  vote  for  old  age  and  eighty  years  of  retro- 
spect. Yet,  after  all,  I  dare  say,  a  short 
shrift  and  a  nice  green  grave  are  about  as 
desirable." 

In  1873  Stevenson's  health  quite  broke 
down,  and  upon  the  advice  of  physicians  he 
journeyed  to  the  southern  part  of  France. 
From  this  experience  emanated  his  essay 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS       227 

"Ordered  South,"  which  was  his  first  con- 
tribution to  Macmillan's  Magazine.  At 
twenty-three  years  of  age  the  future  essay- 
ist and  noveliest  is  already  foreshadowed: 

I  must  tell  you  a  thing  I  saw  to-day.  I  was  going 
down  to  Portobello  in  the  train,  when  there  came 
into  the  next  compartment  (third  class)  an  artisan, 
strongly  marked  with  smallpox,  and  with  sunken, 
heavy  eyes — a  face  hard  and  unkind,  and  without 
anything  lovely.  There  was  a  woman  on  the  plat- 
form seeing  him  off.  At  first  sight,  with  her  one 
eye  blind  and  the  whole  cast  of  her  features  strongly 
plebeian,  and  even  vicious,  she  seemed  as  unpleasant 
as  the  man ;  but  there  was  something  beautifully  soft, 
a  sort  of  light  of  tenderness,  as  on  some  Dutch  Ma- 
donna, that  came  over  her  face  when  she  looked  at 
the  man.  They  talked  for  a  while  together  through 
the  window ;  the  man  seemed  to  have  been  asking 
money.  "Ye  ken  the  last  time,"  she  said,  "I  gave 
ye  two  shillin's  for  your  ludgin',  and  ye  said — 
it  died  off  into  whisper.  Plainly,  Falstaff  and 
Dame  Quickly  over  again.  The  man  laughed  un- 
pleasantly, even  cruelly,  and  said  something ;  and  the 
woman  turned  her  back  on  the  carriage  and  stood  a 
long  while  so,  and,  do  what  I  might,  I  could  catch  no 
glimpse  of  her  expression,  although  I  thought  I  saw 
the  heave  of  a  sob  in  her  shoulders.  At  last,  after 
the  train  was  already  in  motion,  she  turned  round 
and  put  two  shillings  into  his  hand.  I  saw  her  stand 
and  look  after  us  with  a  perfect  heaven  of  love  on 
her  face — this  poor  one-eyed  Madonna — until  the 


228       LO1TERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

train  was  out  of  sight;  but  the  man,  sordidly  happy 
with  his  gain,  did  not  put  himself  to  the  inconveni- 
ence of  one  glance  to  thank  her  for  her  ill-deserved 
kindness. 

Here  is  another  side  of  life  which  Steven- 
son portrays,  and  which  reveals  him  in  the 
character  he  always  preserved  as  a  clean 
man: 

I  shall  tell  you  a  story.  Last  Friday  I  went  down 
to  Portobello,  in  the  heavy  rain,  with  an  uneasy  wind 
blowing  par  rafales  off  the  sea — or,  "en  rafales" 
should  it  be?  or  what?  As  I  got  down  near  the 
beach  a  poor  woman,  oldish,  and  seemingly,  lately  at 
least,  respectable,  followed  me  and  made  signs.  She 
was  drenched  to  the  skin,  and  looked  wretched  below 
wretchedness.  You  know,  I  did  not  like  to  look 
back  at  her ;  it  seemed  as  if  she  might  misunderstand 
and  be  terribly  hurt  and  slighted ;  so  I  stood  at  the 
end  of  the  street — there  was  no  one  else  within  sight 
in  the  wet — and  lifted  up  my  hand  very  high  with 
some  money  in  it.  I  heard  her  steps  draw  heavily 
near  behind  me,  and,  when  she  was  near  enough 
to  see,  I  let  the  money  fall  in  the  mud  and  went  off 
at  my  best  walk  without  ever  turning  round.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  story ;  and  yet  you  will  understand 
how  much  there  is,  if  one  chose  to  set  it  forth.  You 
see,  she  was  so  ugly ;  and  you  know  there  is  some- 
thing terribly,  miserably  pathetic  in  a  certain  smile, 
a  certain  sodden  aspect  of  invitation  on  such  faces. 
It  is  so  terrible,  that  it  is  in  a  way  sacred ;  it  means 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        229 

the  outside  of  degradation  and — what  is  worst  of  all 
in  life — false  position.  I  hope  you  understand  me 
rightly. 

Stevenson's  first  meeting  with  Mr.  W.  E. 
Henley  was  in  circumstances  unusual  and 
pathetic,  the  latter  lying  ill  in  a  hospital 
from  which  he  did  not  emerge 'for  many 
weary  days.  The  friendship  thus  formed 
continued  until  the  end  of  the  novelist's 
life.  In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to 
recall  Mr.  Henley's  unique  and  satisfying 
series  of  poems  entitled  In  Hospital,  which 
could  have  been  written  only  by  one  who 
had  suffered  the  extremes  of  pain  and  lan- 
guor and  had  passed  through  the  scenes  so 
vividly  and  adequately  represented.  Stev- 
enson writes: 

Yesterday,  Leslie  Stephen,  who  was  down  here  to 
lecture,  called  on  me  and  took  me  up  to  see  a  poor 
fellow,  a  poet  who  writes  for  him,  and  who  has  been 
eighteen  months  in  our  infirmary,  and  may  be,  for 
all  I  know,  eighteen  months  more.  It  was  very  sad 
to  see  him  there,  in  a  little  room  with  two  beds,  and 
a  couple  of  sick  children  in  the  other  bed.  A  girl 
came  in  to  visit  the  children,  and  played  dominoes 
on  the  counterpane  with  them  ;  the  gas  flared  and 
crackled,  and  the  fire  burned  in  a  dull  economical 


230        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

way;  Stephen  and  I  sat  on  a  couple  of  chairs,  and 
the  poor  fellow  sat  up  in  his  bed  with  his  hair  and 
beard  all  tangled,  and  talked  as  cheerfully  as  if  he 
had  been  in  a  king's  palace  or  the  great  King's  pal- 
ace of  the  blue  air.  He  has  taught  himself  two  lan- 
guages since  he  has  been  lying  there.  I  shall  try  to 
be  of  use  to  him. 

Stevenson's  earliest  thought  of  the  South 
Sea  islands  as  a  sort  of  "earthly  paradise" 
for  the  sick,  wayworn,  and  weary  is  thus 
awakened,  to  be  cherished  in  silence  for 
more  than  fifteen  years : 

Awfully  nice  man  here  to-night.  Public  servant — 
New  Zealand.  Telling  us  all  about  the  South  Sea 
islands  till  I  was  sick  with  desire  to  go  there ;  beau- 
tiful places,  green  forever ;  perfect  climate ;  perfect 
shapes  of  men  and  women,  with  red  flowers  in  their 
hair ;  and  nothing  to  do  but  to  study  oratory  and  eti- 
quette, sit  in  the  sun,  and  pick  up  the  fruits  as  they 
fall.  Navigator's  Island  is  the  place ;  absolute  balm 
for  the  weary. 

Our  author  triumphantly  passed  his  ex- 
amination for  the  bar  at  Edinburgh,  but  for 
him  had  been  ordained  something  better 
than  the  law.  In  1876,  in  company  with 
Sir  Walter  Simpson,  Stevenson  undertook 
the  canoe  trip  which  resulted  in  the  volume, 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS       231 

'An  Inland  Voyage.  The  open  air,  the  de- 
lightful and  various  scenery,  together  with 
companionship  of  an  agreeable  nature,  in- 
duced an  almost  boyish  happiness  and  peace 
of  mind.  In  1878  occurred  the  autumnal 
tramp  through  the  Cevennes  chronicled  so 
charmingly  in  Travels  'with  a  Donkey.  Dur- 
ing all  this  time  he  was  more  or  less  ailing, 
and  occasionally  he  fell  into  black  moods 
of  despondency;  but  from  these  he  quickly 
rallied,  continuing  his  activities  without 
pause,  accomplishing  the  maximum  of  work 
despite  his  enfeebled  physical  condition, 
and  so  finally  entering  with  assurance  upon 
his  chosen  career  of  letters. 

Stevenson  first  met  in  France  the  lady— - 
Mrs.  Osborne — who  was  afterward  to  be- 
come his  wife.  She  had  been  unhappy  in 
her  domestic  circumstances,  and  returning 
to  her  home  in  California,  she  determined 
to  seek  a  divorce  from  her  husband.  Stev- 
enson, hearing  of  Mrs.  Osborne's  intention, 
started  for  America,  resolved  to  risk  all  in 
his  attempt  to  support  himself,  and  pos- 
sibly a  family,  by  literature  alone.  In  San 


232       LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

Francisco,  while  waiting  for  affairs  to  un- 
ravel themselves  with  regard  to  his  pro- 
jected matrimonial  adventure,  he  knew  the 
pinch  of  real  want.  For  a  brief  and  unsuc- 
cessful period  he  was  a  reporter  upon  a 
San  Francisco  daily  paper;  often  he  was 
fairly  in  want  of  food ;  sick  and  all  but  pen- 
niless, a  stranger  in  a  strange  land — this 
episode  was  the  most  distressing  of  his  life. 
He  himself  thus  recalls  it :  "I  have  to  drop 
from  a  fifty  cent  to  a  twenty-five  cent  din- 
ner; to-day  begins  my  fall.  That  brings 
down  my  outlay  in  food  and  drink  to  forty- 
five  cents,  or  is.  io^d.  per  day.  How  are 
the  mighty  fallen!  Luckily  this  is  such  a 
cheap  place  for  food."  He  was  united  in 
wedlock  with  the  woman  of  his  choice  in 
May,  1880.  Of  his  marriage  he  writes :  "It 
was  not  my  bliss  that  I  was  interested  in 
when  I  was  married ;  it  was  a  sort  of  mar- 
riage in  extremis;  and  if  I  am  where  I  am, 
it  is  thanks  to  the  care  of  that  lady  who 
married  me  when  I  was  a  mere  complica- 
tion of  cough  and  bones,  much  fitter  for  an 
emblem  of  mortality  than  a  bridegroom." 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        233 

Stevenson  arrived  at  his  judgments  by 
the  way  of  his  own  modes  of  thinking  and 
observing.  His  eyes  as  well  as  his  mind 
were  wide  open,  nor  was  his  outlook  upon 
the  world  that  of  the  confirmed  valetudina- 
rian. He  loved  nature  for  its  own  sake, 
while  his  devotion  to  his  kind  was  no  less 
complete  and  intense.  His  spirits  drooped 
low  at  times,  as  his  fluctuating  health 
dragged  down  the  frayed  and  feeble  body, 
but  returning  strength  would  restore  his 
old  vein  of  gayety.  His  sympathy  and  ten- 
derness are  shown  again  and  again.  On 
his  emigrant  trip  across  the  plains  he  takes 
care  of  a  babe  for  hours,  that  the  weary 
mother  may  enjoy  a  rest.  In  San  Fran- 
cisco his  heart  is  torn  at  the  dying  of  a  little 
child: 

My  landlord's  and  landlady's  little  four-year-old 
child  is  dying  in  the  house ;  and  O,  what  he  has  suf- 
fered! It  has  really  affected  my  health.  O  never, 
never,  any  family  for  me !  I  am  cured  of  that.  .  .  . 
Excuse  this  scratch  ;  for  the  child  weighs  on  me,  dear 
Colvin.  I  did  all  I  could  to  help ;  but  all  seems  lit- 
tle, to  the  point  of  crime,  when  one  of  these  poor  in- 
nocents lies  in  such  misery. 


234        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

His  literary  likings  were  prompted  by 
his  delight  in  the  craft  which  was  dear  to 
him  as  life  itself.  Thus  he  says: 

An  art  is  a  fine  fortune,  a  palace  in  a  park,  a  band 
of  music,  health,  and  physical  beauty ;  all  but  love  to 
any  worthy  practicer.  I  sleep  upon  my  art  for  a  pil- 
low; I  waken  in  my  art;  I  am  unready  for  death, 
because  I  hate  to  leave  it.  I  love  my  wife.  I  do  not 
know  how  much,  nor  can,  nor  shall,  unless  I  lost  her ; 
but,  while  I  can  conceive  of  being  widowed,  I  refuse 
the  offering  of  life  without  my  art.  I  am  not  but  in 
my  art ;  it  is  me ;  I  am  the  body  if  it  merely. 

He  was  an  austere  critic  of  himself,  not 
even  his  best  work  satisfying  his  exacting 
requirements  or  fulfilling  his  lofty  ideal. 
No  critic  could  point  out  to  him  any  failure 
in  his  work  of  which  he  himself  was  not 
first  aware.  He  was  a  stylist,  it  is  true — 
what  man  is  not  who  loves  and  studies  the 
exquisite  art  of  composition.  Now  and 
then  he  declares  against  style  in  favor  of 
something  else,  but  he  gave  unremitting 
attention  not  only  to  what  he  had  to  say, 
but  how  he  said  it;  and,  like  every  other 
artist,  he  knew  well  when  he  had  done  a 
good  piece  of  work,  and  was  filled  accord- 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS       235 

ingly  with  a  generous  glow  and  satisfac- 
tion. Few,  perhaps  none  others,  could 
have  achieved  what  he  did  under  disad- 
vantages so  great  and  continuous.  He  was 
wont  to  regard  himself  as  a  slow  artificer 
in  letters,  but  his  slowness  was  rather  in  in- 
vention than  in  composition.  He  says:  "I 
am  still  (a  slow  study/  and  sit  a  long  while 
silent  on  my  eggs.  Unconscious  thought, 
there  is  the  only  method;  macerate  your 
subject,  let  it  boil  slow,  then  take  the  lid 
off  and  look  in — and  there  your  stuff  is, 
good  or  bad."  Though  he  loved  his  tools, 
and  wrought  like  a  lover  with  them,  he  was 
occasionally  haunted  by  the  thought  that 
his  art  might  sometimes  be  too  palpable.  In 
his  ordinary  correspondence  with  his  inti- 
mate friends  there  was  scarcely  a  letter  in 
which  did  not  appear  some  striking  allusion 
to  books  or  bookmen,  or  to  those  who  had 
labored  before,  or  were  laboring  with  him, 
in  his  chosen  field.  In  every  instance,  the 
obiter  dicta  could  have  come  only  from  an 
earnest  student  of  life  and  letters. 

Stevenson  returned  to  England  and  Scot- 


236        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

land  in  August,  1880,  taking  his  new  wife 
with  him ;  thence  he  went  to  spend  the  win- 
ter in  Switzerland.  Returning  to  Scotland 
the  following  summer,  he  made  an  ineffect- 
ual attempt  to  secure  the  chair  of  history 
and  constitutional  law  in  the  University  of 
Edinburgh.  Repairing  to  Switzerland  in 
the  autumn  of  1881,  he  finished  Treas- 
ure Island,  The  Silverado  Squatters,  and 
some  of  his  most  fortunate  essays  for  the 
magazines.  It  is  not  possible  here  to  fol- 
low in  detail  the  endless  journeyings  of 
this  frail  man  of  letters  in  search  of  health. 
There  is  something  pathetic  but  immeasur- 
ably courageous  in  this  invalid  author  la- 
boring always  under  difficulties,  at  times 
and  for  weeks  together  so  feeble  that  he  was 
forbidden  even  to  speak  lest  the  dreadful 
hemorrhages  of  the  lungs  should  recur,  in- 
domitably gay,  sweet,  and  debonair,  pray- 
ing only  for  strength  that  he  might  work 
and  earn  his  daily  bread.  Stevenson's  fa- 
ther bought  for  him  a  house  at  Bourne- 
mouth, England,  which  the  novelist  named 
Skerryvore,  from  one  of  the  sea  towns  of 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS        237 

the  Hebrides,  and  in  commemoration  of 
one  of  his  father's  most  notable  engineer- 
ing achievements.  Here,  though  constant- 
ly in  a  precarious  physical  condition,  he 
produced  between  the  years  1884  and  1887 
some  of  his  best  and  most  characteristic 
work. 

In  January,  1886,  appeared  The  Strange 
Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  which  at 
once  attracted  wide  attention;  in  the  same 
year  appeared  Kidnapped,  which  repeated 
the  success  of  the  earlier  production,  and 
which  Stevenson  himself  was  wont  to  re- 
gard as  the  high-water  mark  of  his  crea- 
tions. In  August,  1887,  his  uncertain 
health  made  it  necessary  to  try  again  a 
change  of  climate;  accordingly,  with  his 
family,  he  came  to  the  United  States  and 
spent  seven  months  at  Saranac  Lake,  in 
the  Adirondack  Mountains.  In  America, 
for  the  first  time,  he  tasted  the  full  sweets 
of  a  not  unwelcome  popularity,  yet  no 
man  was  ever  more  unspoiled  by  success 
than  he. 

Like  most  men  of  genius,  Stevenson  pro- 
16 


238       LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

jected  many  works,  few  of  which  were  actu- 
ally accomplished,  his  delicate  health  and 
teeming  brain  interrupting  and  diverting 
his  labors.  Whatever  he  touched  sprang 
into  life.  He  had  in  him  the  power  to  put 
a  warm,  red,  pulsing  heart  beneath  the  ribs 
6f  death.  He  was  devoid  of  any  petty  jeal- 
ousy toward  men  of  his  own  profession. 
He  recognized  and  rejoiced  in  all  good 
work,  from  whatever  source,  with  a  fine 
and  generous  relish.  In  him  there  was  a 
deep-lying  vein  of  religious  feeling,  not  of 
the  cant  kind,  but  healthful,  manly,  and  re- 
served. Occasionally  he  seems  to  speak  as 
an  unbeliever,  but  at  the  core  of  him  the 
essentials  of  the  rugged  faith  of  his  native 
land  were  really  vital  and  dominant.  His 
distinction  between  the  religious  man  and 
the  pious  man  is  finely  drawn,  but  like  him- 
self in  the  originality  of  the  point  of  view. 
His  constant  migrations  and  his  oft-re- 
curring and  dangerous  illness  brought  him 
to  look  upon  death  with  no  terror,  but  with 
the  equanimity  of  a  Christian  and  a  philoso- 
pher ;  and  when  he  expresses  resignation  it 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS       239 

is  not  the  resignation  of  either  apathy  or 
despair. 

In  his  own  way  Stevenson  was  interested 
in  questions  of  politics,  and  all  matters  of 
public  concern  received  his  intelligent  and 
critical  attention.  Like  many  other  men  of 
genius  he  was  not  a  model  in  the  conduct  of 
business  affairs.  He  was  generous  to  his 
friends,  and  his  purse  was  ever  open  to 
unfortunate  men  of  the  pen  or  the  press. 
His  bete  noire  was  the  wind,  probably  be- 
cause of  the  weakness  of  his  lungs.  It  is 
interesting  to  observe  how,  again  and  again, 
in  his  correspondence  as  well  as  in  his  sto- 
ries and  essays,  he  speaks  of  the  wind,  and 
almost  always  with  disfavor,  though  for 
the  various  scenes  and  nearly  all  the  moods 
of  nature  he  cherished  an  abiding  affection. 
He  was  possessed  of  an  old  and  rooted  be- 
lief that  he  should  die  by  drowning ;  which 
is  but  another  instance  of  the  fact  that  even 
ancient  and  persistent  impressions  are  not 
to  be  relied  upon,  and  may  finally  partake 
of  the  character  of  superstitions.  He  never 
outgrew  some  phases  of  his  childhood,  and 


240        LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

the  heart  in  his  bosom  was  susceptible  to 
youthful  pastimes  and  enthusiasms  to  the 
very  last: 

When  a  man  seemingly  sane  tells  me  he  has  "fallen 
in  love  with  stagnation,"  I  can  only  say  to  him, 
"You  will  never  be  a  pirate!"  This  may  not  cause 
any  regret  to  Mrs.  Monkhouse ;  but  in  your  own  soul 
it  will  clang  hollow — think  of  it!  Never!  After 
all  boyhood's  aspirations  and  youth's  immortal  day- 
dreams, you  are  condemned  to  sit  down,  grossly  draw 
in  your  chair  to  the  fat  board,  and  be  a  beastly  bur- 
gess till  you  die.  Can  it  be?  Is  there  not  some 
escape,  some  furlough  from  the  moral  law,  some  holi- 
day jaunt  contrivable  into  a  better  land?  Shall  we 
never  shed  blood  ?  This  prospect  is  too  gray. 

The  idea  of  yachting  had  brooded  long- 
in  Stevenson's  mind,  and  at  length  culmi- 
nated in  an  extended  cruise  in  the  schooner 
Casco  among  the  South  Sea  islands.  He 
had  determined  to  invest  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars in  this  sailing  trip,  from  which  he  was 
destined  never  to  return  to  the  shores  of 
England  or  America.  It  was  on  June  28, 
1888,  that  he  started  from  the  harbor  of 
San  Francisco.  After  cruising  about  for 
several  months  he  arrived,  near  Christmas 
time,  at  Honolulu,  where  he  remained  for 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS       241 

six  months.  During  this  period  he  visited 
the  leper  colony  at  Molokai.  His  fine 
thoughtfulness  and  quick  sympathy  are 
beautifully  shown  in  a  letter  to  his  wife: 

Presently  we  came  up  with  the  leper  promontory — 
lowland,  quite  bare  and  bleak  and  harsh,  a  little  town 
of  wooden  houses,  two  churches,  a  landing  stair,  all 
unsightly,  sour,  northerly,  lying  athwart  the  sunrise, 
with  the  great  wall  of  the  pali  cutting  the  world  out 
on  the  south.  Our  lepers  were  sent  on  the  first  boat, 
about  a  dozen,  one  poor  child  very  horrid,  one  white 
man,  leaving  a  large  grown  family  behind  him  in 
Honolulu,  and  then  into  the  second  stepped  the  sis- 
ters and  myself.  I  do  not  know  how  it  would  have 
been  with  me  had  the  sisters  not  been  there.  My 
horror  of  the  horrible  is  about  my  weakest  point ; 
but  the  moral  loveliness  at  my  elbow  blotted  all  else 
out ;  and  when  I  found  that  one  of  them  was  crying, 
poor  soul,  quietly  under  her  veil,  I  cried  a  little  my- 
self; then  I  felt  as  right  as  a  trivet,  only  a  little 
crushed  to  be  there  so  uselessly.  I  thought  it  was 
a  sin  and  a  shame  she  should  feel  unhappy ;  I  turned 
round  to  her  and  said  something  like  this :  "Ladies, 
God  himself  is  here  to  give  you  welcome.  I'm  sure 
it  is  good  for  me  to  be  beside  you ;  I  hope  it  will  be 
blessed  to  me ;  I  thank  you  for  myself  and  the  good 
you  do  me."  It  seemed  to  cheer  her  up  ;  but  indeed 
I  had  scarce  said  it  when  ATC  were  at  the  landing 
stairs,  and  there  was  a  great  crowd,  hundreds  of 
(God  save  us!)  pantomime  masks  in  poor  human 
flesh,  waiting  to  receive  the  sisters  and  the  new 
patients. 


242       LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

His  pen  picture  of  Father  Damien  is  in- 
deed most  striking: 

Of  old  Damien,  of  whose  weaknesses  and  worse 
perhaps  I  heard  fully,  I  think  only  the  more.  It  was 
a  European  peasant — dirty,  bigoted,  untruthful,  un- 
wise, tricky,  but  superb  with  generosity,  residual 
candor  and  fundamental  good  humor :  convince  him 
he  had  done  wrong — it  might  take  hours  of  insult — 
and  he  would  undo  what  he  had  done  and  like  his 
corrector  better.  A  man  with  all  the  grime  and 
paltriness  of  mankind,  but  a  saint  and  hero  all  the 
more  for  that. 

Determined  to  renew  his  yachting  expe- 
ence,  in  June,  1889,  he  left  Honolulu,  in  the 
schooner  Equator,  bound  to  the  Gilberts,  in 
the  western  Pacific.  Toward  Christmas  of 
the  same  year  he  reached  Samoa.  Here  he 
bought  the  future  Vailima  on  the  mountain 
side,  above  Apia.  He  departed  for  Sydney, 
from  which  place,  after  a  serious  illness,  he 
entered  upon  a  devious  voyage,  in  the  trad- 
ing steamer  Janet  Nicoll,  among  various 
remote  islands.  He  finally  returned  to  his 
Samoan  property,  where  work  had  been 
going  forward  during  his  absence.  He 
lived  at  Vailima  from  1890  until  the  time  of 


LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS       243 

his  death,  four  years  later.  His  days  there 
were  passed  with  great  zest  in  multiplied 
occupation.  The  natives  knew  him  by  the 
musical  name  of  Tusitala,  "teller  of  tales." 
In  the  year  1892  his  health  again  broke 
sadly.  Trips  to  Sydney  and  to  Honolulu 
failed  to  benefit  him,  and  his  energies  be- 
gan to  flag.  His  annual  income  during  the 
last  few  years  of  his  life  was  between  $20,- 
ooo  and  $25,000,  but  his  generosity  was 
boundless,  and  he  saved  little.  In  the  few 
months  previous  to  the  close  of  his  life  he 
seemed  to  be  filled  with  a  great  weariness 
and  to  experience  premonitions  of  his  early 
decease. 

The  end  came  suddenly  on  the  3d  of  De- 
cember, 1894.  Stevenson  had  been  work- 
ing on  Weir  of  Henniston  at  the  height  of 
his  powers.  All  the  morning  he  had 
wrought  in  a  glow  of  satisfaction  which 
only  the  true  artist  can  feel.  At  evening, 
while  he  was  in  the  most  buoyant  spirits, 
he  was  struck  down.  His  loved  ones  stood 
about  him,  watching  the  ebbing  away  of 
the  life  so  dear  to  all — drinking  the  deep 


244       LOITERINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

bitterness  of  that  hour  when  human  impo- 
tency  is  most  sharply  felt  in  the  presence 
of  the  dissolution  of  nature's  fondest  ties. 
"He  died  at  ten  minutes  past  eight  on  Mon- 
day evening,  the  3d  of  December,  in  the  for- 
ty-fifth year  of  his  age."  The  burial  took 
place  in  the  afternoon  of  the  succeeding 
day.  His  dust  lies  on  the  summit  of  a 
mountain  of  his  well-loved  Samoa  until  the 
dawning  of  that  morning  when  God  shall 
summon  all  earth's  sleepers  to  awake. 

At  his  death  Stevenson  left  two  incom- 
plete stories,  St.  Ives  and  Weir  of  Heruris- 
ton,  both  of  these  among  the  best  products 
of  his  pen.  His  art  ripened  and  improved 
to  the  very  last.  St.  Ives  was  completed  by 
Mr.  A.  T.  Quiller-Couch,  and  Weir  of  Hcr- 
miston  by  Mr.  Sidney  Colvin,  the  latter 
adding  one  or  two  brief  notes  to  the  un- 
finished story. 


INDEX 


Abolitionist,  198. 

Black,  William,  41. 

"Accontius  and  Cydippe,   The 

Blackmore,  R.  D.,  42. 

Story  of,"  60. 
"Adam  Bede,"  42,  124,  125,  126, 

Blackstone,  185. 
Blackwood's  Magazine,  94,  118, 

128,  143. 
Adirondack  Mountains,  219,  237. 
"Adouais,"  96. 

132. 
Blakesley,  Dean,  19,  21. 
"  Blessed  Damozel,  The,"  153. 

Adonis,  96. 
l'jEneid''  of  Virgil,  73,  90. 

Bonaparte,  103. 
Boswell,  45. 

"^Eschylus,"  99. 

Bournemouth,  236. 

Aldworth,  30,  43. 

Boxley,  27. 

Alford,  Dean,  19. 

Braddon,  Miss,  42. 

Allingham,  William,  10. 
American  Constitution,  18,  32. 

Brawne,  Fanny,  104. 
Brazil,  66. 

Andover,  187. 

Bronte,  Charlotte,  138,  145. 

"Another  Spring,"  168. 
Anstey,  41. 
"Antiquary,  The,"  53. 

Brookfield,  16,  19. 
Broughton,  Miss,  42. 
Brown,  Oliver  Madox,  156,  164. 

Apia,  242. 

Browning,  Mrs.,  56,  144,  145,  167, 

Apostles,  Society  of,  20. 
Arbury  Farm,  xi6. 

175,  211. 
Browning,  Robert,  10,  42,  56,  119, 

Argyll,  Duke  of,  n. 

156,  162,  175,  211. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  n. 

Bryant,  192. 

"Arts  of  Life,  The  Lesser,"  63. 

Buchanan,  Robert,  161,  162. 

Atalanta's  Race,  68. 

"Bucolics,"  Virgil's,  179. 

Atlantic  Monthly,  204. 

Buller,  Charles,  19. 

Austen,  Jane,  145. 

Burne-Jones,   Edward,   54,    56, 

58,  59- 

Bacon,  19. 

Burns,  185. 

Baldasarre,  130. 

Burton,  Sir  Frederick,  135. 

Balfour,  Rev.  Lewis,  220. 

Byron,  Lord,  15,  16,  42,  91,  96, 

Balfour,  Margaret  Isabella,  220. 

99,  103,  179. 

"Banded    Men,   The    Story    of 

the,"  72. 

Caine,  Hall,  42,  163. 

Barrie,  J.  M.,  42. 

Caius  Cestius,  112. 

Baudelaire,  155. 

California,  231. 

Beattie,  179. 

Cambridge,  187. 

"Becket,"  39. 

Carlyle,  Mrs.  .  47. 

"  Bellerophon  at  Argos,"  69. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  10,  20,  45,  46, 

"  Bellerophon  in  Lysia,"  69. 
Bell  Rock  Lighthouse,  220. 

J38i  175,  182. 
Carroll,  Lewis,  162. 

Besant,  Walter,  41. 

Casaubon,  Dorothea,  120. 

Bexley  Heath,  62. 
Bible,  The,  180,  219. 

Casco,  schooner,  240. 
Cavaliers,  184,  185. 

"  Biglow  Papers,"  186,  191. 
Birchington-on-Sea,  164. 

Celtic  race,  31. 
Cevennes,  231. 

245 

246 


INDEX 


Chambers,  95. 
Chapman,  George,  117. 

Edinburgh,  220,  230. 
Eliot,  George,  39,  42,  45,  115  et 

Charmian,  103,  104,  106. 

seq. 

Chaucer,  17,  51,  53,  67,  88,  91. 
"Child  Christopher  and  Goldi- 
lind,  Of  "  79. 
"Child's  Garden  of  Verses,  A," 

Elmwood,  177,  180. 
Ely,  Dean  of,  19. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  29,  119, 
175,  182,  192. 

214. 
Chingford  Hatch,  53. 

Endymion,"  94,  95,  96. 
English     Illustrated    Magazine, 

Chopin,  Frederic,  8. 

Macmillan's,  78,  227. 

Christ,  34,  35,  37,  107,  218. 
Christianity,  33,  35. 
"Christianity,  Essence  of,"  117. 

Epping  Forest,  27,  52,  53. 
Equator,  schooner,  242. 
44  Ere    Dwellers,  The   Story  of 

Clark,  Cowden,  01. 

the,"  72. 

Clarke,  90. 

Essex,  53. 

Cleopatra,  103. 

Evans,  Mary  Ann  (George  Eliot), 

Clough,  A.  H.,  ii. 

"5- 

Coleridge,  in,  193. 

Evans,  Robert,  116. 

Colinton,  220. 

"Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The,"  97. 

Collinson,  152. 

Exeter  College,  54. 

Colvin,  Sidney,  216,  244. 

"  Commemoration    Ode,"    Low- 

" Fable  for  Critics,"  191. 

ell's,  184,  204. 

"  Faerie  Queene,  The,"  179. 

Concord,  182,  187. 

Fairlop  Oak,  52. 

Contemporary  Review,  161. 
Court  of  St.  James,  186. 
Coventry,  116. 

Falstaff,  227. 
Farringford,  30. 
•*  Felix  Holt/'  128,  143. 

Cowley,  179. 

Feuerbach,  117. 

Cowper,  175,  181,  212. 

"  Fifine  at  the  Fair,"  162. 

Crawford,  Marion,  41. 
Crockett,  125. 

Fitzgerald,  Edward,  10,  14,  17,45. 
"  Fleshly  School  of  Poetry,  The/' 

Cromwell,  184. 

161. 

Cross,  J.  W.,  115,  140. 

Florence,  128,  130. 

"Cupid  and  Psyche,  The  Story 

Forman,  Buxton,  72. 

of/'  69. 

Forster^John,  n. 
"  Fostering  of  Aslaug,  The,"  69. 

Damien,  Father,  242. 

"Frithiof  the  Bold,  The  Story 

"Daniel  Deronda,1'  128,  140. 

of,"  72. 

Dante,  179. 

Froissart,  Chronicles  of,  56. 

Darwin,  Charles,  8,  21,  206. 

Fronde,  48. 

"  Death  of  Paris,  The,"  69. 

Fytche,  Elizabeth,  15,  17,  18. 

De  Vere,  Aubrey,  n,  40. 
Deverell,  Walter  Howell,  160. 

Clifford,  93,  94,  96. 

Dickens,  115,  12^,  145. 

Gilberts  (islands),  242. 

Divine  Personality,  36. 
Dodgson  (Lewis  Carroll),  162. 

"  Gilnl's  Love  Story,  Mr.,"  122, 
123. 

"  Don  Juan,"  96. 

Crilman,  Mrs.,  189. 

"  Doom  of  King  Acrisius,  The," 

Gladstone,  W.  E.,  8,  10,  22,  30, 

68. 
"  Dora,"  47. 

138. 
11  Glittering  Plain,  The  Story  of 

Doyle,  Conan,  42,  125, 

the,"  78 

Durer,  Albert,  59. 

11  Goblin  Market,"  167. 

Godwin,  92. 

"Ebb  Tide,  The,"  213. 

Goethe,  31,  44,  87,  100. 

INDEX 


247 


4  'Goethe,  Life  of,"  132. 

44  Hunting  of  the  Snark,  The," 

44  Golden  Apples,  The,"  69. 

162. 

Gothic  Architecture,  53. 

Huxley,  40. 

Greek  Mythology,  90. 
44  Grettir  the  Strong,  The  Story 

"Hyperion,"  99. 

of,"  72. 

44  Idylls  of  the  King,"  33,  59,  61. 

Griff,  1  1  6. 
4'Guggum,"  161. 

44  Inland  Voyage,  An,    231. 
44  In  Hospital,"  229. 

44  Guinevere,"  33,  4k 
Guinevere,  The  Defense  of, 

44  In  Memoriam,"  u,  30. 
44  Irene,"  192. 

59,  61,  66,  68. 

Hale  End,  52. 

James,  Henry,  41. 
Janet  Nicoll,  schooner,  242. 

HaDam,  Arthur,  n,  19,  22,  25,  27. 
Hal  lam,  Henry,  n. 

'"Janet's  Repentance,"  123. 
44  Jason,  The  Life  and  Death  of," 

Halleck,  192. 

66,  71. 

Hampden,  184. 

44Jcnny  "  i57» 

Hardy,  Thomas,  41,  138. 
44  Harold,"  39. 

44Jesus,  Life  of,"  117. 
Jex-Blake,  58. 

Harvard,  178,  204. 
Harvard  Law  School,  189. 

Job,  Book  of,  34. 
Johnson,  Lionel,  78. 

Hawthorne,  125,  192. 

Jowett.  Benjamin,  10,  28,  44. 

Haydon,  92. 

44July,?>  69. 

Hazlitt,  88,  92. 

Heath,  Douglas,  19,  21. 
44  Heath  Slayings,  The  Story  of 

Keats,  John,  42,  85  et  seq.,  155, 
175,  212. 

the,"  72. 

Kelmscott,  51,  71,  80,  163. 

Hebrides,  The,  237. 

Kemble,  J.  M.,  10,  19,  21. 

Henley,  W.  E.,  219,  229. 
44  Hen  Thorir,  The  Story  of,"  72. 

44  Kidnapped,"  237. 
King  Arthur,  33. 

High  Beech,  27. 

King's  College,  151. 

Highgate  Cemetery,  141. 
44  Hill  of  Venus,  The,'7  69. 

Kingsley,  115,  125. 
Korner,  90,  xox,  109. 

Hippocrene,  Fountain  of,  188. 

44  Hogni  and  Hedinn,  The  Tale 
Of/*  72. 

Ladislaw,  Will,  xao. 
44  Lady  of  the  Land,  The,"  69. 

Holmes,  O.  W.,  8. 
Honolulu,  240,  242,  243. 
Hooker,  Bishop,  103. 

Lamb,  Charles,  138,  212. 
44  Land  East  of  the  Sun,"  etc.,  69. 
Landor,  175. 

Hope,  Anthony,  125. 

Lawless,  Miss,  42. 

Hope  (poet),  179. 

14  Lay  Sermons,"  Coleridge's,  193. 

Horace,  138,  179. 

Lear,  Edward,  10. 

Houghton,  Lord.     (See  Milnes 
Richard  Moncton.) 

44  Legend  of  Jubal,  The,"  137. 
Lempriere's  Dictionary,  90. 

44  House  of  Life,  The,"  159. 

44  Les  Miserables,"  143. 

"House  of  the  Wolfings,  A  Tale 

Lewes,  George  H.,  39,  117,  118, 

of  the,"  78. 

132,  133,  134,  140,  141. 

44  Howard  the  Halt,  The  Story 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  8. 

of,"  72. 
Howard,  John,  103. 

Lincoln,  Blakesley,  Dean  of,  19. 
Locker-Lam  pson,  Frederick,  134, 

Howitt,  Mary,  45. 
"How  Lisa  Loved  the  King,"  137. 
Hunt,  Holman,  152. 

135,  14*. 
London  Chronicle,  The,  142. 
London,  Trench,  Archbishop  of, 

Hunt,  Leigh,  90,  92,  xio,  112. 

19. 

248 


INDEX 


Longfallow,  192,  199,  204. 
Loring,  G.  B.,  179.  189. 

Morley,  John,  70. 
Morris  and  Co.,  Decorators,  62. 

"  Love  is  Enough,     71. 
"  Love  of  Alcestis,  The,"  69. 

Morris,  Marshall,  Faulkner  and 
Co.,  64. 

"  Lovers  of  Gudrun,  The,"  69. 

Morris,  William,  51  et  seq.,  155. 

"  Love's  Nocturn,"  165. 

"Morte  d'Arthur,"  56. 

Lowell,  James    Russell,   175   et 

"My  Confidences,"  134. 

seq.,  211. 

Lowell,  Mabel,  203. 

Navigator's  Island,  230. 

Lowell,  Robert,  177. 

New    Poems    by    Christina   G. 

Lushington,  Edmund,  21,  45. 

Rossetti,  169. 

Lushington,  Vernon,  58. 
Lyall,  Edna,  42. 

New  Zealand,  230. 
"News  from  Nowhere,"  52,  77, 

Lydgate,  Rosamond,  120. 

78. 

Lytton,  115. 

North  American  Review,  204. 

t 

North  British  Review,  95. 

Macaulay,  138. 

Norton,  Charles  Eliot,  204. 

Maitland,  Thomas  (Robert  Buch- 

anan), 161. 

"  Ode  to  the  Nightingale,"  100. 

Majendie,  Lady  Margaret,  42. 
Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  56. 

Odyssey  of  Homer,  73. 
"  Ogier  the  Dane,"  69. 

"Man  Born  to  be  King,  The,"  68. 

"  Old    Poets,   Conversations    on 

"Man    Who     Never     Laughed 

Some  of  the,"  190. 

Again,  The,"  69. 

Oliphant,  Mrs.,  42. 

Marlborough,  53. 
Marston,  Philip  Bourke,  156. 

"  Ordered  South,"  227. 
Ormond  Yard,  65. 

if    »*               1     ?» 

Maud,    30,  43. 

Osborne,  Mrs.  Fanny,  231. 

Maurice,  Frederick  D.,  10. 

Ouida,  42. 

Melema,  Tito,  129,  135. 

Ovid,  151. 

Mendelssohn,  Felix,  8. 

Oxford,  55,  56,  57,  j>8j  62. 

Meredith,  George,  41,   119,   138, 

Oxford    and    Cambridge   Maga- 

163. 

zine,  58. 

Merivale,  Dean  of  Ely,  19. 
Methodism  in  England,  125. 

"  Palace  of  Art,"  23. 

Methodists,  124. 

Palgrave,  F.  T.,  10. 

Middle  Ages,  55. 

"Paradise,   The    Earthly,"    68, 

'  Middlemarch,      120,    128,    140, 

7*1  74- 

Midlothian,  220. 

Parliament  (English),  186. 
"  Peace  and  War,"  143. 

Millais,  152,  216. 

Poe,  Edgar  A.,  8,  153   155,  199. 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  117. 
"  Mill  on  the  Floss,  The,"  128. 

"  Poems  by  the  Way,     74. 
"  Poems  by  Two  Brothers,"  15. 

Milnes,  Richard  Moncton,  8,  10, 

"Poems\  Chiefly  Lyrical,"  21. 

19,  38,  103. 

Portobello,  227,  228. 

Milton,  33,  42,  179,  184. 

Prayer,  35. 

Minerva,  124. 

Preraphaelites,  54,  151,  152,  160. 

"Minstrel,  The,"  179. 

Prince  Albert,  20. 

"  Miscellanies,"  Carlyle's,  183. 

"  Princess,  The,    29,  40. 

Molokai,  241. 

"  Prince  Otto,"  215. 

Monkbarns,  53. 
Montagu,  Basil,  92. 

"  Promise  of  May,    39. 
"Proud  King,  The,"68. 

Montaigne,  119. 

"Pygmalion    and    the   Image," 

Monteith,  19. 

69,  70. 

"  Moosehead  Journal,"  176. 

Pym,  184. 

INDEX 


249 


Quarterly  Review,  23,  24,  92,  93, 

Shackford,  W.  H.,  178,  180. 

94,  95,  in. 

Shakespeare,  117,  119. 

44  Queen  Anne"  Architecture,  62. 

Shelley,  88,  92,  95,  96,  112,  155. 

Queen  Elizabeth's  Lodge,  53. 
"  Queene,  The  Faerie,"  91. 
Quickly,  Dame,  227. 

Shelley's  poems,  20. 
Shorthouse,  J.  H.,  42. 
Siddal,   Elizabeth   Eleanor,  160, 

Quiller-Couch,  A.  T.,  244. 

161. 

Sidney,  184. 

Raphael,  107. 

"Sigurd  the  Volsung,  The  Story 

"  Raven,  The,"  153. 

of,"  73- 

Reade,  115,  125. 

"  Silas  Marner,    42,  128. 

Red  House,  The,  62,  64. 

14  Silverado  Squatters,  The,"  236. 

Reynolds,  J.  K.,  106. 

Simpson,  Sir  Walter,  230. 

Rice,  S.  S.,  19. 

Skerryvore,  236. 

4(1  Ring  Given  to  Venus,  The,"  69. 

Socialism  of  Morris,  74. 

Rogers,  Samuel,  10. 
44  Roi  the  Fool,  The  Tale  of,"  72. 

Socrates,  107. 
"Son  of  Croesus,  The,"  69. 

Roman  Catholicism,  33. 

Son  of  Man,  34. 

"Romola,"  42,  128,  131,  143. 
44  Roots  of  the  Mountains,  The," 

"  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese," 
159- 

78. 
Rossetti,  Christina  G.,  149,  150, 

Sorrel,  Hetty,  135. 
South  Sea  Islands,  230,  240. 

164,  166  et  seq. 

"  Spanish  Gypsy,  The,"  137. 

Rossetti,  Daute  G.,s6,  58,  62,  71, 

Spectator,  10,  45,  217. 

149  et  seq.,  211. 
Rossetti,  Gabriele,  150. 

Spedding,  James,  10,  19,  39. 
Spencer,  Herbert,  117,  118. 

Rossetti,  Maria,  150. 

Spencer,  Hon.  W.  R.,  91. 

Rossetti,  William  Michael,  149, 

Spenser,  88,  91,  179. 

156,  164,  169. 

44  St.  Ives,"  244. 

Rouen,  55. 
Roundheads,  184. 

St.  John,  34. 
Stephen,  Leslie,  229,  230. 

Rubinstein,  219. 
Ruskin,  John,  58,  138,  152. 

Stephens,  152. 
Stevenson,  Robert,  220. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  41,  125, 

44  Sad   Fortunes  of  Rev.   Amos 

175,  211  et  seq. 

Barton,  The,"  123. 

Stevenson,  Thomas,  220. 

44  Saga  of  Gunnlaug,"  etc.,  72. 
Saintsbury,  Mr.,  67. 

44  Story  of  Rhodope,  The,"  69. 
44  Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and 

Sallust,  151. 

Mr.  Hyde,  The,"  237. 

Samoa,  242,  244. 
San  Francisco,  232,  240. 
Sand,  George,  132. 
Saranac  Lake,  237. 

Strauss,  117. 
44  Sundering  Flood,  The,"  79. 
Swift,  Dean,  175. 
Swinburne,  Algernon  C.,  61,  67, 

Sarasate,  219. 

163. 

Savonarola,  128,  129. 

Switzerland,  219,  236. 

"Scenes   of  Clerical   Life,"   42, 

Sydney,  242,  243. 

118,  122,  123,  132,  140. 

Symons,  Arthur,  59. 

Schiller,  90,  101,  105,  212. 

Scott,  Bell,  58. 

"  Talking  Oak,  The,"  43. 

Scott,  Walter,  53,  115,  125. 

Taylor,  Henry,  10. 

Selden,  184. 

Tennant,  19,  21. 

Sellwood,  Emily,  10,  27,  28,  29. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  7  et  seq.,  56. 

Sermon  on  the  Mount,  34. 

Tennyson,  Charles,  27. 

Severn,  101,  in. 

Tennyson,  Emily,  22. 

250 


INDEX 


Tennyson,   Rev.  George    Clay- 

Walthamstow, 52. 

ton,  15. 

Walton,  Izaak,  52. 

Tennyson,  Hallam,  12. 

Wansted,  52. 

Tennyson,  Lionel,  37. 
Thackeray,  W.  M.,  11,115,  125, 

Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry,  140. 
Washington,  176. 

138,  145. 
41  Tneophrastus  Such,"  128. 

"  Watching  of  the  Falcon,  The," 
69. 

Theydons,  52. 

"Water  of  the  Wondrous  Isles, 

Thomson,  19,  21. 

The,"  79. 

Thoreau,  182. 

Watertown,  189. 

"Thorstein    Staffsmitten,    The 

Watts,  G.  F.,  10. 

Tale  of,"  72. 

"Weary  in  Well  Doing,"  169. 

Ticknor,  204. 

Webster,  185. 

"  Tom  Jones,"  143. 
k  Travels  with  a  Donkey,"  231. 

Wegg,  Captain,  138. 
"Weir  of  Hermiston,"  220,  243, 

44  Treasure  Island,"  236. 

244. 

Trench,  Archbishop  of  London, 

"  Well  at  the  World's  End,  The," 

19. 
Trinity  College,  19. 
Trollope,  115,  125. 

Wellington,  Duke  of,  32. 
Westminster  Review,  117. 

Tudor  House,  163. 
Tunbridge  Wells,  27. 

Weyman,  S.  J.,  125. 
"When  I  am  Dead,  My  Dear- 

Tusitala, 243. 

est,"  poem,  168. 

44  Two  Voices,  The,"  26. 

White,  Maria,  189,  190,  192. 

Tyndall,  John,  10,  37,  38,  40. 

White,  W.  A.,  189. 

Whitman,  Walt,  32,  156. 

44  Ulysses,"  47. 

University  of  Edinburgh,  236. 

Williams,  D.  H.,  192. 
Windermere,  105. 

"Wood     Beyond     the    World. 

Vailima,  242. 

The,"  78. 

Vallance,  Aymer,  54. 
41  Vastness,     poem,  38. 

Woodford,  52. 
Woodstock,  51. 

Vaughan,  155. 
Venables,  G.  S.,  10. 

Woolner,  Thomas,  10,  152. 
Wordsworth,  9,  29,  40,  42. 

Vergil,  151,  179. 
"Viglund  the  Fair,  The  Story 

"Writing  on  the  Image,  The," 
69. 

of?'  72. 
41  Vision  of  Sin,  The,"  47. 

"  Year's  Life,  A,"  190. 

4'  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,    191. 
Vivisection,  45. 

Zoilus,  xiz. 

44  Volsung  Saga,"  72. 

Zola,  40. 

D 


